Guido's, but he soon found that he could not understand the words spoken. However, the speakers presently relapsed into French, and then he easily gathered that one of them, a Spaniard, dying of the cruel hospital fever, was entreating his French comrade to write for him a letter of farewell to his wife. Evidently the feelings of the Frenchman were touched. Henri saw him tear a leaf from a book which he had with him, and write upon it at the dictation of the Spaniard, and in his language. "Though where is the use?" he heard him say to one near him in a lower tone. "Poor fellow! there is none to send it for him."
By-and-by another pitcher of snow was brought in by Henri's first acquaintance, whose name was Pontet.
When with some difficulty he had distributed the coveted refreshment among its many eager and agonized claimants, he said briefly, as he set down his pitcher, "I have news."
Heads were raised and eyes were turned towards him, but for the most part languidly; suffering had well-nigh killed desire and hope—even fear was scarcely felt.
"The Emperor is come," said Pontet. In that word there was a spell potent enough to arouse the dying. On every side exclamations arose—"Come back! Retaken the town! Stolen a march upon them all! Ah, what joy! What a triumph!" and one voice, weak but courageous, raised the old well-remembered cry, "Vive Napoléon!"
"Hush, you fools!" said Pontet sharply. "Napoleon is far enough away. Do you think there is no other Emperor in the world? I am speaking of the Emperor Alexander."
Bitter was the disappointment, especially to dying hearts. Pontet came in for sundry curses, feeble but emphatic, and one sick man flung his cup at him. "How dare you raise our hopes only to dash them so cruelly?" he cried.
"I had more to tell," Pontet continued; "but if you care not to listen, I can spare my breath."
