“Féron,” asked a third, “are there no horses in this accursed country—no men, no food, no anything?”
“Not much, I suppose, at the best of times. But remember, my lad, we marched over this very ground ourselves a few months ago, and wasted and destroyed all we could find.”
It was too true. In this respect they were filled with the fruit of their own devices; their wanton acts of pillage and devastation recoiled upon their own heads.
“Féron,” murmured once more the faint voice of Henri, “I can go no further. I must lie down and rest.”
“Monsieur Henri, if you lie down on that ground, you rise never more.”
“I know it; but I can bear up no longer. My sight is gone, my limbs are failing. Dear Féron, let me go.” And in spite of the sustaining arm of his friend, he staggered and fell. Féron bent over him, entreating him to rise, and offering his help.
“O Monsieur Henri, think of your mother—of your sister, Mademoiselle Clémence. If you hope ever to see their sweet faces again, rouse yourself, exert all your strength.”
But already Henri seemed half-asleep. A look of rest stole over his worn features, and his eyes were closed. Opening them for a moment, he murmured, “Féron—my mother—Clémence. Ask them to forgive me. Good-bye, dear Féron. God bless thee!”
The others meanwhile continued their march. In those terrible days the fall of a comrade scarcely made a Frenchman turn his head. Seppel called to Féron, “Come along, man! For what are you lingering?”
To stay behind would be to share the fate of Henri, not to rescue him. Féron turned sadly away; but after taking two or three steps, turned back once more, murmuring, “What a fool I am! No good to him, and a sore loss to me. Still, if he should awake, even for a moment.” Stooping down, he slipped his flask of vodka into the benumbed hand of Henri. “Adieu, comrade,” he said. “If ever I see France again, I will tell thy mother and Mademoiselle Clémence.”