Page:The Czar, A Tale of the Time of the First Napleon.djvu/236

226 "Hush!" said those around—"hush! here comes Monsieur le Général."

St. Priest came slowly, threading his way through the thick ranks of sick men stretched upon the ground. His look was absorbed and anxious; some great care seemed to oppress him. Pontet whispered, "See how he is leaving the work to his aide-de-camp."

For all observed that the companion of St. Priest paused continually, and, bending low over the sufferers, spoke in turn to each, patiently waiting for an answer. Those near him noticed also with surprise that Frenchmen, Poles, and Germans were addressed with equal fluency, each in his own tongue.

As he approached, the good-natured Frenchman who had written the Spaniard's letter for him whispered, "Try the aide-de-camp. He looks kind."

Thus encouraged, the dying man stretched out his worn and fevered hand. "For the love of God, Monsieur l'Aide de camp," he prayed in his broken French, "take this letter and send it for me. It is my last farewell to my dear wife."

"That letter shall reach its destination," was the answer, uttered in a tone of deep feeling; and stooping over the prostrate form, the speaker added some gentle words of hope and consolation.

As his tall figure resumed its erect position, the lamplight shone upon his face, revealing it to Henri. It was a noble, refined, sensitive face, pale with uttermost horror and loathing at the abominations around, though the revolt of the shrinking nerves and senses was crushed down by a strong will, and a look of profound compassion and sympathy effaced every other expression. Instinctively Henri raised himself, and, resting on his elbow, gazed at him with a hungry longing in his heart that to him—even to him also—he would address so much as a single word. At the same moment the stranger's pitying eye fell upon his young, sad, wasted face. "Et toi aussi,