‘Tomassov said nothing.

‘ “Haven’t you got the soul of a warrior,” the Frenchman asked in an angry whisper but with something of a mocking intention in it.

‘ “I don’t know,” said poor Tomassov.

‘What a look of contempt that tragic scarecrow gave him out of his unquenchable eyes! It was awful to discover so much vigour yet in that body that seemed to live only by the force of infuriated and impotent despair. Suddenly he gave a gasp and fell forward writhing in the agony of cramp in his overtaxed limbs; a not unusual effect of the heat of a camp fire. It looked like the application of a horrible torture. But the Frenchman fought against the pain at first. He only moaned low while we bent over him so as to prevent him rolling into the fire, and muttered feverishly at intervals:

‘ “Tuez moi, tuez moi”^* … Then vanquished by the pain he screamed aloud time after time, each cry bursting out through his compressed lips.

‘The adjutant woke up on the other side of the fire and started swearing awfully at the “beastly row” that Frenchman was making.

‘ “What’s this? More of your infernal humanity, Tomassov?” he yelled at us. “Why don’t you have him thrown out on the snow, to the devil out of this beyond earshot.”

‘As we paid not the slightest attention to his angry shouts he got up, cursing shockingly, and went from us to another fire. Presently the Frenchman became easier. We propped him up against the log and sat silent on each side of him till the cavalry trumpets started their calls at the first break of day. The big flame kept up all through the night paled on the livid light of the snows, while the frozen air all round rang with the brazen notes of the trumpets. The Frenchman’s eyes, fixed in a glassy stare that a moment made us hope that he had died quietly sitting there between us two, stirred slowly to the right and left, looking at each of our faces in turn. We exchanged glances of dismay. Then his voice, unexpected in its renewed strength and ghastly self-possession, made us shudder inwardly.

‘ “Bonjour, Messieurs.”

‘His head drooped on his chest. Tomassov addressed me in Russian.

‘ “It is he, the man himself” … I nodded and Tomassov went on in a tone of anguish! “Yes he! Brilliant, accomplished, envied by men, loved by that woman—this horror—this miserable thing that cannot die. Look at his eyes. It’s terrible.”

‘I did not look. But I understood what Tomassov meant. We could do nothing for him. The desolation of this avenging winter of fate held both the fugitives and the pursuers in its iron grip. Compassion was but a vain word before that unrelenting destiny. I tried to say something about the convoy of prisoners being no doubt collected in the village—but I faltered at the mute glance Tomassov gave me. We knew what these convoys were like; appalling companies of hopeless wretches driven on by the butts of Cossacks’ lances, back through the frozen inferno but with their faces away from their home.

‘Our two squadrons had been formed along the edge of the wood. The desolate minutes were passing. The Frenchman suddenly struggled to his feet. We helped him almost without knowing what we were doing.

‘ “Come,” he said in measured tones. “This is the moment.” He paused for a whole minute, then with the same distinctness went on. “On my word of honour all faith is dead in me.”

‘His voice lost suddenly its self-possession, and after waiting a little he added in a murmur—“and even my courage. Yes. Upon my honour!”