The Quest of Glory. Bowen Marjorie

much farther? No food—no rest. How much farther? How far to Provence?”

      The Marquis started; he was himself Provençal, and had not known M. d’Espagnac came from his country; the word stirred agony in the heart he controlled with such difficulty.

      “Provence!” repeated the lieutenant. “They will want news of me, you know, Monsieur. I must tell them—the quest of glory——”

      Again the words stabbed M. de Vauvenargues. “Georges,” he murmured, bending over him, “perhaps you have attained the quest.”

      M. d’Espagnac laughed again.

      “What a jest if I should die!” he muttered wildly. “My heart is quite cold, it is freezing my blood. Perhaps I am in my grave, and this is some one else speaking. How far to Eger?—how long to the Judgment Day?”

      “I am with you, Georges d’Espagnac,” said the Marquis. “We are alive.”

      He seemed to hear that.

      “Where?” he demanded.

      “On the heights,” said M. de Vauvenargues.

      It was now quite dark save for the light of the wagon lamp that fell over the straw-coloured silk hangings of M. de Belleisle, the beautiful anguished face framed in the gorgeous hair, the woman in her barbaric splendour clasping the feeble child, and the slender figure of the Marquis in his blue and silver uniform; it glimmered, too, on the pieces of the Maréchal’s dessert service, and the sparkle of them caught Carola’s eye.

      “Do you travel with such things?” she asked. “Our nobles sleep on the ground, and drink from horn——”

      “M. de Belleisle must travel as a Maréchal de France,” answered the Marquis. “But these things seem foolish now.”

      A great giddy sickness was on him, and a distaste of life that could be so wretched; the spirit within him was weary of the miserable flesh that suffered so pitifully.

      “Give me my sword,” said M. d’Espagnac. “I am starting out on a quest. Do you hear? Jesu, have mercy upon me!”

      Carola rose and walked up and down with the child.

      “You are Catholic?” she asked.

      “No,” answered the Marquis.

      “An atheist?” she questioned.

      “An ugly word, Mademoiselle”—he gave a little sigh; “but yes—perhaps.”

      “I am sorry for you,” said Carola; at which he smiled. “But your friend?” she added. “We have no priest!” She seemed distressed at the thought.

      “His soul does not need shriving,” replied M. de Vauvenargues.

      But the words seemed to have penetrated the lieutenant’s clouded consciousness; he clamoured for a priest, for the last Sacrament, for the Eucharist.

      The Marquis caught him in his arms and held him strongly.

      “None of that matters,” he said with power. “You are free of all that—upon the heights.”

      The voice calmed M. d’Espagnac; he rested his head on his captain’s breast, and shuddered into silence.

      The Marquis looked up to see Carola with empty arms.

      “Where is the child?” he asked.

      “Dead,” she answered, in a tired voice. “And I have laid her under the wagon with my crucifix. I think she was a Hussite, but perhaps God will forgive her, for she was too young to know error.”

      “Do you suppose God’s charity less than yours, Mademoiselle?” answered M. de Vauvenargues gently. “You sheltered a heretic child all day—will not God shelter her through all eternity?”

      She looked at him strangely.

      “I feel very weary,” she said; “the wolves sound nearer.”

      The Marquis thought of the two dead mules and the woman’s corpse that Carola had not seen; he was stretching out his hand for his pistol when d’Espagnac lifted his head.

      “Thank you, Monsieur,” he said, and his voice was sweet and sane; “I fear I incommode you and Mademoiselle.” He smiled and raised himself on one arm. “You must not stay for me. I am very well. Dying, I know—but very well.”

      Carola came closer to him.

      “I know the prayers of my church—shall I say them for you?”

      He faintly shook his head.

      “Thank you for your thought. But we are so far from churches.”

      He was silent again, and the Marquis noticed with a shudder that the great snowflakes were beginning to fall once more.

      “How can we endure it?” murmured Carola, and the tears clung to her stiff lids.

      M. d’Espagnac moved again. “There are some letters in my pockets—if you should return to France——”

      “Yes, yes,” said the Marquis.

      The lieutenant gave a little cough, and seemed to suddenly fall asleep; they wrapped him up as well as they could and chafed his brow and hands.

      The snow increased and drifted round the wagon and began to cover them softly.

      Presently, as there was no further sound, the Marquis held a scrap of the feather trimming of his hat before d’Espagnac’s lips and slipped his hand inside the fine cold shirt.

      They discovered that he was dead; had evidently drawn his last breath on the word “France,” and resigned his soul without a sigh or struggle.

      It was horrible and incredible to the Marquis in those first minutes; why should he, never robust, and a girl of delicate make survive, and Georges d’Espagnac, so young, strong, and full of vitality, die as easily as the ailing child?

      He bent low over the sunken face, and the loose strands of his hair touched the frozen snow.

      “The Quest of Glory,” said Carola, in a strange voice.

      The Marquis looked up at her, and his eyes were full of light.

      “Yes, Mademoiselle,” he said simply, and drew the heavy cloak over the face of Georges d’Espagnac.

      “A joyful quest!” she cried, in a hollow voice.

      “Yes,” he said again, “a joyful quest.”

      He rose, and the snow drifted on to his argent epaulettes, his torn lace cravat and his loose hanging hair. He leant against the wagon and put his hand to his side; now that they had the covered form of the dead between them, the hideous loneliness became a hundredfold intensified. Heavy tears forced themselves with difficulty from under Carola’s lids and ran down her wan cheeks, but she made no sound of sobbing.

      “You are a brave woman,” said the Marquis very gently. “You must not die. Give me your hand.”

      She shook her head.

      “Leave me here. Why should you trouble? Go on your way.”

      She bent her head and then felt his hand on her shoulder, drawing her, very tenderly, to her feet; she resisted her giddiness, which nearly flung her into his arms, and murmured in a firmer voice—

      “Very well. We are companions in misfortune and will stay together.” She crossed herself and whispered some prayer over the dead. “It is horrible to leave them,” she added, thinking of the wolves.

      “He is not there,” answered the Marquis, “but ahead of us on the way already.”

      He unfastened the lantern from the wagon and, taking it in his left hand, offered the right to the Countess.

      An