beautiful fountain—but now he rose quickly, and tried to walk. But the effort proved too much for him; he tottered, slipped upon the frozen ground, fell, and utterly lost consciousness.
When he recovered from his long and deathlike swoon, he found everything changed around him. Instead of the wintry sky, he saw above him a lofty vaulted roof. The light was dim, but sufficient to reveal the scene. The floor was covered, or rather crowded with prostrate forms; in some places they lay in heaps. He stretched out his hand, and touched the form nearest him; it was cold as ice, and in his horror at the thought that he was surrounded by the dead, he uttered a weak, agonized cry.
Several heads were raised at this, and eyes, bright with fever or dim with the mists of approaching death, gazed at him in a kind of dull surprise.
"Where am I?" he asked feebly.
Some one dressed in a ragged French uniform, and carrying a large pitcher filled with snow, approached the place where he lay. "In prison," he said. "They brought you in a while ago with some other sick men."
"Are you a warder?" pursued Henri.
"You insult me! Can't you see my uniform? I am, like yourself, a prisoner and a Frenchman. But those of us who are still passably strong are allowed to go down to the court and gather snow for the rest."
He was prevented from adding more by the clamour of the sick men around. All who were able to speak begged in piteous accents for a portion of the snow, holding out cups and other small vessels to receive it.
Henri was more conscious at the moment of hunger than of thirst. "Is there any food?" he asked in a faint voice.
A piece of hard biscuit was pushed towards him, and he took
