“That might depend upon what the occasion for help should prove, for I have one friend in the world.”
“Who is he?”
“Colonel Mahon, of the Curaissiers.”
“I never heard of him—is he here?”
“No; I left him at Nancy; but I could write to him.”
“It would be too late, much too late.”
“How do you mean—too late?” asked I, tremblingly.
“Because it is fixed for to-morrow evening,” replied he, in a low, hesitating voice.
“What? the—the—” I could not say the word, but merely imitated the motion of presenting and firing. He nodded gravely in acquiescence.
“What hour is it to take place?” asked I.