“Va là—we shall breakfast to-morrow, and I can wait. Let us go on, Madame.”
She knew that her mistress’s hallucinations were the outcome of that dreadful day; nor did she quarrel with them. There could be nothing worse than the sights the woods cloaked. The dead around her—she would not look upon their faces. The wounded—she put her fingers to her ears that she might not hear their cries! And they were drawing near to the houses of her own people now. The physical craving dominated her. She was hungry, and all else was secondary to that.
It was nearly midnight, and those who buried the dead were still at work in the open fields by the river. Beatrix saw their lanterns as changing clusters of stars upon the hillside. The pity in her heart was ever growing. A wounded horse came up and thrust its hot nose into her hand. She laid her cheek upon its face, and her tears fell fast. Fatigue had begun to master her. She had not eaten for many hours. No real belief that she would find her husband drove her on; only a pursuing idea, the idea that she must go out into the world, wandering, until she heard his voice again. Nor could she pick her way any longer. From field to field and road to road she went with heavy steps and a great pain at her heart, and pity—that unceasing pity—always prevailing above her own grief and sorrow for herself.
And so she came at last to the watch-fires of a Prussian regiment of dragoons, and men, hearing a woman’s voice, sprang up and greeted her with a ribald welcome, and strong arms dragged her to the light. But the first coherent word spoken was the word of a friend; and looking up timidly she beheld Brandon North, the Englishman.
CHAPTER XV
A BIVOUAC OF DRAGOONS
He had recognised her voice at once, and he came forward and took her hand and drew her toward the blazing fire.
“Good God, it is Beatrix!” he exclaimed, forgetting that the right thus to call her had passed to another. She answered him with a responding word of surprise.
“You, here at Wörth, Brandon—then you have seen Edmond?”