Some one took a blazing brand out of the fire and flung it after him. "If you want fire, take it!" cried he, and a mocking laugh rang in the ears of Henri. He turned, and said, "Would that I had met this night, instead of you Frenchmen, a company of Russians—or, still better, a pack of wolves!"
"What is all this about?" asked a deep, hoarse voice, and a tall figure rose slowly from the opposite side of the fire.
"It is a straggler, a polisson, who was trying to join our coterie. We have just been sending him about his business," was the answer.
"What a hurry you were in! Bring him to me," said the voice of authority.
There was no need to bring him. Henri himself turned gladly, though very feebly, towards this new arbiter of his fate. But when he saw him, he started in surprise. It is true that part of his uniform was concealed by a long cloak lined with fur, but his great hairy cap, and his white waistcoat and gaiters, showed him to be one of the Old Guard, the very élite of the French army. These veterans were objects of envy to all their fellow-soldiers; for while the rest had been treated with cruel neglect and indifference, receiving between Moscow and Smolensko absolutely no rations whatever, the Old Guard were well and carefully fed, and supplied abundantly with wine or spirits. The reason was obvious. Upon them devolved a duty of paramount importance, that of guarding the person of Napoleon. Therefore, when the bulk of the army, demoralized by its sufferings, had broken up into fragments, the Old Guard was still able to keep rank, to present a noble appearance, and oppose a firm front to the enemy. Hence the surprise of Henri at finding one of its number amongst a group of wretched-looking stragglers belonging to various regiments.
Meanwhile the Guardsman surveyed him with a critical eye. "Why, this is only a slip of a lad, un petit jeune homme," he
