into the room.

"Ah!" he said, glancing at her suspiciously and rubbing his hands
together. "That strengthens, eh?--that strengthens. We others who lead
a rough life--we know that a little food and a glass of wine fit one out
for any enterprise, for--well, any catastrophe."

And Desiree knew in a flash of comprehension that the food and the wine
and the forced gaiety were nothing but preliminaries to bad news.

"What is it?" she asked a second time. "Is it... bombardment?"

"Bombardment," he laughed, "they cannot shoot, those Cossacks. It is
only the French who understand artillery."

"Then what is it?--for you have something to tell me, I know."

He ruffled his shock-head of white hair, with a grimace of despair.

"Yes," he admitted, "it is news."

"From outside?" cried Desiree, with a sudden break in her voice.

"From Vilna," answered Barlasch. He came into the room, and went past
her towards the fire, where he put the logs together carefully.

"It is that he is alive," said Desiree, "my husband."

"No, it is not that," Barlasch corrected. He stood with his back to
her, vaguely warming his hands. He had no learning, nor manners, nor any
polish: nothing but those instincts of the heart that teach the head.
And his instinct bade him turn his back on Desiree, and wait in silence
until she had understood his meaning.

"Dead?" she asked, in a whisper.

And, still warming his hands, he nodded his head vigorously. He waited
a long time for her to speak, and at last broke the silence himself
without looking round.

"Troubles," he said, "troubles for us all. There is no avoiding them.
One can only push against them as against your cold wind of Dantzig that
comes from the sea. One can only push on. You must push, mademoiselle."

"When did he die?" asked Desiree; "where?"

"At Vilna, three months ago. He has been dead three months. I knew he
was dead when you came back to the inn at Thorn, and told me that you
had seen De Casimir. De Casimir had left him dying--that liar. You
remember, I met a comrade on the road--one of my own country--he told
me that they had left ten thousand dead at Vilna, and twenty thousand
prisoners little better than dead. And I knew then that De Casimir had
left him there dying, or dead."

He glanced back at her over his shoulder, and at the sight of her face
made that little click in his throat which, in peasant circles, denotes
a catastrophe. Then he shook his head slowly from side