captured by the Pandours, who routed our escort, and then by a Bohemian regiment, who considered us enemies”—he smiled engagingly. “But I have induced them to allow me an audience of M. de Belleisle, who, I am certain, will allow us on our way.”

“Why, doubtless,” returned the Frenchman, with disinterested courtesy; “but it is severe weather for travelling, and in time of war, with a lady.”

“My sister,” said the young Pole, “is used to the cold, for she has lived all her life in Russia.”

The lady lifted a face pale with fatigue and shadowed with anxiety; her black hair was very unbecomingly twisted tight round her head, and she wore a fur cap of fox’s skin drawn down to her ears.

“I have a good reason to wish to hasten to Paris,” she said. “I am summoned there by the Queen.”

She made an impatient gesture to the Bohemian who conducted them, and with a weary little bow followed him through the small door that had been cut in the high blank wall.

With a more elaborate courtesy her companion followed her, his heavy tread echoing in the stillness even after the door had closed behind him.

“I wish I were bound for Paris,” remarked the young Colonel, M. de Biron.

One of the captains lightly echoed his wish; the other glanced at the lieutenant and said in a very pleasing voice—

“No, M. le Duc, wish for a battle, which would suit us all better.”

M. de Biron smiled.

“You are very sanguine, Luc.”

“How sanguine, Monsieur?”

“You speak as if war was what it used to be in the days of Amathis de Gaul: forays, single combats, pitched battles, one cause—reward, honour, glory.”

The faint smile deepened on Luc de Clapiers’ face; he made no reply, but the lieutenant flushed quickly and answered—

“Pardon me, Monsieur, but it seems to me like that still.”

The young Duke seated himself on one of the wooden benches and crossed his slender feet.

“Even Luc,” he said, with an accent of slight amusement, “cannot make this a crusade. We do not know exactly what we fight for—we respect our enemies as much as our allies; we think the Ministers fools, and know the generals jealous of each other. The country, that never wanted the war, is being taxed to death to pay for it; we”—he shrugged elegantly—“are ruining ourselves to keep ourselves in weariness and idleness. We get no thanks. I see not the least chance of promotion for any of us.”

“But, Monsieur,” cried the lieutenant eagerly, “you forget glory.”

“Glory!” repeated M. de Biron lightly.

Luc de Clapiers flashed a profound look at him in silence; the other captain laughed.

“We are none of us,” he remarked, “like to get much glory in Prague.”

“Oh, hear d’Espagnac on that,” returned the Duke half mockingly; “he hath not yet awakened from fairy tales.”

The exquisite young face of Georges d’Espagnac blushed into a beautiful animation.

“A soldier,” he said, “may find glory anywhere, Monsieur le Duc.”

“In death, for instance,” replied M. de Biron, with a whimsical gravity. “Yes, one might find that—any day.”

“No—I meant in life,” was the ardent answer. “Die—to die!” The young voice was scornful of the word. “I mean to live for France, for glory. What does it matter to me how long I stay in Prague—for what cause the war is? I march under the French flag, and that is enough. I fight for France—I am on the quest of glory, Monsieur.” He paused abruptly; M. de Biron took a fan of long eagle feathers from the bench and fanned the dying charcoal into a blaze.

“A long quest,” he said, not unkindly. He was thinking that he had been ten years in the army himself, and only obtained his colonelcy by reason of his rank and great influence at Court; Georges d’Espagnac, of the provincial nobility, with no friend near the King, had no bright prospects.

A little silence fell, then Luc de Clapiers spoke.

“A short or easy quest would be scarcely worth the achieving.”

M. d’Espagnac smiled brilliantly and rose. “It is splendid to think there are difficulties in the world when one knows one can overcome them—fight, overcome, achieve—chase the goddess, and clasp her at last! To ride over obstacles and mount on opposition—nothing else is life!”

His dark hazel eyes unclosed widely; he looked as magnificent, as confident, as his words sounded. His cloak had fallen apart, and the last blaze of the charcoal flame gave a red glow to the silver pomp of his uniform; his face, his figure, his pose were perfect in human beauty, human pride transformed by spiritual exaltation; his soul lay like holy fire in his glance. So might St. Sebastian have looked when he came the second time to deliver himself to martyrdom.

“I give you joy of your faith,” said M. de Biron.

“Oh, Monsieur, you shall give me joy of my achievement one day. I know that I am going to succeed. God did not put this passion in men for them to waste it.” He spoke without embarrassment as he spoke without boasting, and with a pleasing personal modesty, as if his pride was for humanity and not for himself.

Luc de Clapiers was looking at him with eyes that shone with understanding and sympathy.

“Keep that faith of yours, d’Espagnac,” he said softly; “it is the only thing in the world worth living for. Indeed, how could we live but for the hope of glory—some day?”

“I trust you may both die a Maréchal de France,” remarked M. de Biron.

The charcoal sank out beyond recovery; a sudden cold blast of wind blew through the upper part of the window that had been smashed by an Austrian shell. M. de Biron rose with a shudder.

“It is warmer in the guardroom,” he declared.

Luc de Clapiers spoke to the Lieutenant.

“Will you come with me to the church?”

The young man answered readily. “Certainly, Monsieur.”

The Duke put his hand on the shoulder of the other captain.

“I do believe”—he smiled—“that Luc is on the same quest of glory.”