“And I shall die that shameful death,” he groaned. “My poor mother!”
I could see by M. de Lambert’s face that he was weakening. He was a gallant soldier, but he had the softest heart I ever knew save in woman. At the first sign of the fellow’s distress he began to waver, and cast reproachful glances at me as I spoke sternly and sharply.
“What is your name?” he asked, abruptly addressing the prisoner.
The Swede’s cheeks burned with shame, but he seemed to derive some comfort from the expression of M. de Lambert’s frank face.
“My name is Gustavus Lenk,” he said slowly; “a poor Swedish gentleman of the king’s household. My record has been honorable, but now they will hang me like a common spy.”
He covered his face with his hands, and broke down in unmanly grief. M. de Lambert plucked my sleeve, making a mute appeal to me for mercy, but I shook my head and answered him in low tones in French.
“We cannot take the responsibility,” I said. “We are in the service of the King of France, we must do our duty.”
“I know it,” he replied; “but this is a poor fellow, and you know what Russian justice is, monsieur.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “It is but a chance of war,” I said calmly; “a man coming on such an errand takes his life in his hand. I confess I should pity him more if he showed himself more of a man. He is too womanish.”
“He is young,” M. de Lambert rejoined pitifully, “and they will torture him. I know that Madame de Brousson would intercede for him; she—”