Then, with a cry or two of "_Vive l'Empereur!_" it would resume
its march, leaving behind a few lifeless bodies lying huddled up, tiny
dark specks on the white ground.
Though often marching in the ranks or skirmishing in the woods side
by side, the two officers ignored each other; this not so much from
inimical intention as from a very real indifference. All their store of
moral energy was expended in resisting the terrific enmity of Nature and
the crushing sense of irretrievable disaster.
Neither of them allowed himself to be crushed. To the last they counted
among the most active, the least demoralised of the battalion; their
vigorous vitality invested them both with the appearance of an heroic
pair in the eyes of their comrades. And they never exchanged more than
a casual word or two, except one day when, skirmishing in front of the
battalion against a worrying attack of cavalry, they found themselves
cut off by a small party of Cossacks. A score of wild-looking, hairy
horsemen rode to and fro, brandishing their lances in ominous silence.
The two officers had no mind to lay down their arms, and Colonel Feraud
suddenly spoke up in a hoarse, growling voice, bringing his firelock to
the shoulder:
"You take the nearest brute, Colonel D'Hubert; I'll settle the next one.
I am a better shot than you are."
Colonel D'Hubert only nodded over his levelled musket. Their shoulders
were pressed against the trunk of a large tree; in front, deep
snowdrifts protected them from a direct charge.
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