“Where am I?” he asked feebly.
Some one dressed in a ragged French uniform, and carrying a large pitcher filled with snow, approached the place where he lay. “In prison,” he said. “They brought you in a while ago with some other sick men.”
“Are you a warder?” pursued Henri.
“You insult me! Can’t you see my uniform? I am, like yourself, a prisoner and a Frenchman. But those of us who are still passably strong are allowed to go down to the court and gather snow for the rest.”
He was prevented from adding more by the clamour of the sick men around. All who were able to speak begged in piteous accents for a portion of the snow, holding out cups and other small vessels to receive it.
Henri was more conscious at the moment of hunger than of thirst. “Is there any food?” he asked in a faint voice.
A piece of hard biscuit was pushed towards him, and he took it eagerly. Then half-a-dozen hands were extended, and as many voices spoke to him—“Take my biscuit, and give me in exchange your next cup of snow-water.”
Henri ate a little, moistening his biscuit with the snow-water; but bitter experience had taught him moderation. Then, forgetting that he was no longer a famished fugitive fighting for the necessaries of life, he began, from habit, to conceal the remainder about his person.
A harsh, bitter laugh, from the man who brought in the snow, made him look up. “No need to hide what nobody wants,” said he. “Biscuit is the only thing we have in plenty here—except death.”
“Can this indeed be Vilna?” Henri asked with a bewildered look.