“The Quest of Glory,” said Carola, in a strange voice.
The Marquis looked up at her, and his eyes were full of light.
“Yes, Mademoiselle,” he said simply, and drew the heavy cloak over the face of Georges d’Espagnac.
“A joyful quest!” she cried, in a hollow voice.
“Yes,” he said again, “a joyful quest.”
He rose, and the snow drifted on to his argent epaulettes, his torn lace cravat and his loose hanging hair. He leant against the wagon and put his hand to his side; now that they had the covered form of the dead between them, the hideous loneliness became a hundredfold intensified. Heavy tears forced themselves with difficulty from under Carola’s lids and ran down her wan cheeks, but she made no sound of sobbing.
“You are a brave woman,” said the Marquis very gently. “You must not die. Give me your hand.”
She shook her head.
“Leave me here. Why should you trouble? Go on your way.”
She bent her head and then felt his hand on her shoulder, drawing her, very tenderly, to her feet; she resisted her giddiness, which nearly flung her into his arms, and murmured in a firmer voice—