He was silent again, and the Marquis noticed with a shudder that the great snowflakes were beginning to fall once more.
“How can we endure it?” murmured Carola, and the tears clung to her stiff lids.
M. d’Espagnac moved again. “There are some letters in my pockets—if you should return to France——”
“Yes, yes,” said the Marquis.
The lieutenant gave a little cough, and seemed to suddenly fall asleep; they wrapped him up as well as they could and chafed his brow and hands.
The snow increased and drifted round the wagon and began to cover them softly.
Presently, as there was no further sound, the Marquis held a scrap of the feather trimming of his hat before d’Espagnac’s lips and slipped his hand inside the fine cold shirt.
They discovered that he was dead; had evidently drawn his last breath on the word “France,” and resigned his soul without a sigh or struggle.
It was horrible and incredible to the Marquis in those first minutes; why should he, never robust, and a girl of delicate make survive, and Georges d’Espagnac, so young, strong, and full of vitality, die as easily as the ailing child?
He bent low over the sunken face, and the loose strands of his hair touched the frozen snow.