“Monsieur Henri,” murmured Féron, “can you say a prayer for me? You used to pray, though we laughed at you for it in the regiment.”
“There is one prayer I have often prayed since all this trouble came upon us,” said Henri. “It is good, and it is short; you can say it for yourself—‘God be merciful to me a sinner, for Jesus Christ’s sake.’”
“God be merciful to me a sinner, for Jesus Christ’s sake,” Féron repeated earnestly; and during the hour that followed—an hour that seemed like a year to Henri—the cry was often on his lips.
But he grew weaker and weaker, until at last he fell into a kind of stupor, while Henri watched silently beside him.
Just about the dawning of the day, a cry, great and terrible, thrilled every heart, and reached even the dulled ear of the dying man. He roused himself, and murmured faintly, “What is it, Monsieur Henri?”
Henri knew too well. All around him were repeating, in tones that expressed every variation of anguish and despair—“The bridge is on fire! the bridge is burning!” So, after all, Napoleon had not waited until every Frenchman was safe on the other side!
“‘The hireling fleeth, because he is an hireling, and careth not for the sheep,’” thought Henri bitterly. “But thou shalt never know, Féron. This pang at least shall be spared thy dying hour.”
He bent once more over his friend, who was feebly repeating the question—“Monsieur Henri, what is it?”
“Nothing that concerns you or me,” Henri answered firmly. “Do you suffer, comrade?”
“No—no pain. Only I am sinking—sinking. I want to say that prayer again. God be merciful—for Christ’s sake.”