“What do you mean to do?” asked the aide-de-camp.

“Drag them.”

“You are crazy.”

“True,” said Philippe, crossing his arms in despair.

Suddenly, he was seized by a last despairing thought.

“To you,” he said, grasping the sound arm of his orderly, “I confide her for one hour.  Remember that you must die sooner than let any one approach her.”

The major then snatched up the countess’s diamonds, held them in one hand, drew his sabre with the other, and began to strike with the flat of its blade such of the sleepers as he thought the most intrepid.  He succeeded in awaking the colossal grenadier, and two other men whose rank it was impossible to tell.

“We are done for!” he said.

“I know it,” said the grenadier, “but I don’t care.”

“Well, death for death, wouldn’t you rather sell your life for a pretty woman, and take your chances of seeing France?”

“I’d rather sleep,” said a man, rolling over on the snow, “and if you trouble me again, I’ll stick my bayonet into your stomach.”

“What is the business, my colonel?” said the grenadier.  “That man is drunk; he’s a Parisian; he likes his ease.”

“That is yours, my brave grenadier,” cried the major, offering him a string of diamonds, “if you will follow me and fight like a madman.  The Russians are ten minutes’ march from here; they have horses; we are going up to their first battery for a pair.”

“But the sentinels?”

“One of us three—­” he interrupted himself, and turned to the aide-de-camp.  “You will come, Hippolyte, won’t you?”

Hippolyte nodded.

“One of us,” continued the major, “will take care of the sentinel.  Besides, perhaps they are asleep too, those cursed Russians.”

“Forward! major, you’re a brave one!  But you’ll give me a lift on your carriage?” said the grenadier.

“Yes, if you don’t leave your skin up there—­ If I fall, Hippolyte, and you, grenadier, promise me to do your utmost to save the countess.”

“Agreed!” cried the grenadier.

They started for the Russian lines, toward one of the batteries which had so decimated the hapless wretches lying on the banks of the river.  A few moments later, the gallop of two horses echoed over the snow, and the wakened artillery men poured out a volley which ranged above the heads of the sleeping men.  The pace of the horses was so fleet that their steps resounded like the blows of a blacksmith on his anvil.  The generous aide-de-camp was killed.  The athletic grenadier was safe and sound.  Philippe in defending Hippolyte had received a bayonet in his shoulder; but he clung to his horse’s mane, and clasped him so tightly with his knees that the animal was held as in a vice.

“God be praised!” cried the major, finding his orderly untouched, and the carriage in its place.

“If you are just, my officer, you will get me the cross for this,” said the man.  “We’ve played a fine game of guns and sabres here, I can tell you.”