"Speak—I charge you, boy."
"She is dead."
"Dead!" François fell to the ground as if a bullet had passed through his brain. When he recovered his senses, he saw Victor kneeling beside him, and bathing his head with cold water, which he had brought in his hat from a neighboring spring. In a few words, the child told him their cottage had taken fire in the night, and been burned to the ground, and his mother had perished in the flames.
A kind cottager soon made his appearance, and conducted the unfortunate father and son to his humble cabin. Here they passed the night and one or two days following. During that time, François Bertrand neither ate nor slept, but wept over his misfortune with an agony that refused all consolation. On the third day only he regained his composure; but it was only to be conscious of a new and overwhelming misfortune. His eyesight was gone. The agony of mind he had suffered, and the tears he had shed, had completed the ravages of his disorder.
"Where are you, Victor?" said the soldier.
"Here, by your side, father; don't you see me?"
"Alas! no, my boy. I can see nothing. Give me your little hand. Your poor father is blind."
The agonizing sobs of the boy told him how keenly he appreciated his father's misfortune.
"Dry your eyes, Victor;" said the soldier. "Remember the instructions of your poor mother, how she taught you to submit with resignation to all the sufferings that Providence sees fit to inflict upon us in this world of sorrow. Henceforth you must see for both of us; you will be my eyes, my boy."