Féron repeated earnestly; and during the hour that followed—an hour that seemed like a year to Henri—the cry was often on his lips.
But he grew weaker and weaker, until at last he fell into a kind of stupor, while Henri watched silently beside him.
Just about the dawning of the day, a cry, great and terrible, thrilled every heart, and reached even the dulled ear of the dying man. He roused himself, and murmured faintly, "What is it, Monsieur Henri?"
Henri knew too well. All around him were repeating, in tones that expressed every variation of anguish and despair—"The bridge is on fire! the bridge is burning!" So, after all, Napoleon had not waited until every Frenchman was safe on the other side!
"'The hireling fleeth, because he is an hireling, and careth not for the sheep,'" thought Henri bitterly. "But thou shalt never know, Féron. This pang at least shall be spared thy dying hour."
He bent once more over his friend, who was feebly repeating the question—"Monsieur Henri, what is it?"
"Nothing that concerns you or me," Henri answered firmly. "Do you suffer, comrade?"
"No—no pain. Only I am sinking—sinking. I want to say that prayer again. God be merciful—for Christ's sake."
With these words on his lips, Féron passed away. Henri had scarcely time to close his eyes before he was forced by the strong current of the crowd from the spot where he had been standing. He kept fast hold of Guido: just now he cared but little what became of himself; his only thought was to save the child. He was at last pushed into a position from which he could see the river; but he turned shuddering from the sight, which indeed was horrible beyond description. Men, women, and children were struggling in the icy waters, or sinking for the last time beneath them. Here and there a strong
