Questions and explanations followed, and each told the other his adventures since they parted.
“Where is our regiment?” asked Henri.
“It has ceased to exist,” returned Féron. “‘Sauve qui peut’ is our only marching order now.”
“Ah, friend,” said Henri, “I see you have suffered. Your hand—”
“Frost-bitten one bitter night. I could not help thinking when I lost it of that poor Russian whom we branded in the hand before we came to Moscow. Do you remember him, Monsieur Henri?”
“I ought to remember him. I saw him again in the city, and he did me a good turn.—Now, Féron, I want you, if you can, to help me to protect this lady and these two helpless little children.”
“If I can. But we must be patient. Those who are rushing madly forward to try and reach the bridge only increase their own danger. Already they are trampling one another down by dozens.”
“Ay,” said Henri, “because they are afraid the bridges will be burned or broken as soon as the effective troops have passed over them, to protect the retreat of the Emperor.”
“Fools! Do they think the Emperor will let the bridges be touched so long as one Frenchman or Frenchwoman remains upon this side? They do not know him,” returned Féron.
“Perhaps not,” said Henri sadly. “Ah, what is this?” he cried the next moment, as a bullet whizzed close by them through the air.