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