“Tomassov said nothing.

“‘Haven’t you got the soul of a warrior?’ the Frenchman asked in an angry whisper, but with something of a mocking intention in it.

“‘I don’t know,’ said poor Tomassov.

“What a look of contempt that scarecrow gave him out of his unquenchable eyes.  He seemed to live only by the force of infuriated and impotent despair.  Suddenly he gave a gasp and fell forward writhing in the agony of cramp in all his limbs; a not unusual effect of the heat of a camp-fire.  It resembled the application of some horrible torture.  But he tried to fight against the pain at first.  He only moaned low while we bent over him so as to prevent him rolling into the fire, and muttered feverishly at intervals:  ‘Tuez moi, tuez moi...’ till, vanquished by the pain, he screamed in agony, time after time, each cry bursting out through his compressed lips.

“The adjutant woke up on the other side of the fire and started swearing awfully at the beastly row that Frenchman was making.

“‘What’s this?  More of your infernal humanity, Tomassov,’ he yelled at us.  ’Why don’t you have him thrown out of this to the devil on the snow?’

“As we paid no attention to his shouts, he got up, cursing shockingly, and went away to another fire.  Presently the French officer became easier.  We propped him up against the log and sat silent on each side of him till the bugles started their call at the first break of day.  The big flame, kept up all through the night, paled on the livid sheet of snow, while the frozen air all round rang with the brazen notes of cavalry trumpets.  The Frenchman’s eyes, fixed in a glassy stare, which for a moment made us hope that he had died quietly sitting there between us two, stirred slowly to right and left, looking at each of our faces in turn.  Tomassov and I exchanged glances of dismay.  Then De Castel’s voice, unexpected in its renewed strength and ghastly self-possession, made us shudder inwardly.

“‘Bonjour, Messieurs.’

“His chin dropped on his breast.  Tomassov addressed me in Russian.

“‘It is he, the man himself...’  I nodded and Tomassov went on in a tone of anguish:  ’Yes, he!  Brilliant, accomplished, envied by men, loved by that woman—­this horror—­this miserable thing that cannot die.  Look at his eyes.  It’s terrible.’

“I did not look, but I understood what Tomassov meant.  We could do nothing for him.  This avenging winter of fate held both the fugitives and the pursuers in its iron grip.  Compassion was but a vain word before that unrelenting destiny.  I tried to say something about a convoy being no doubt collected in the village—­but I faltered at the mute glance Tomassov gave me.  We knew what those convoys were like:  appalling mobs of hopeless wretches driven on by the butts of Cossacks’ lances, back to the frozen inferno, with their faces set away from their homes.

“Our two squadrons had been formed along the edge of the forest.  The minutes of anguish were passing.  The Frenchman suddenly struggled to his feet.  We helped him almost without knowing what we were doing.