reaction came. He could only
guess, of course, at what might really happen. So far, he had but
taken upon himself, in the stead of Cornelius, a certain amount of
personal risk; though he hardly supposed himself to be facing the
danger of death. Still, especially for one such as he, with all the
sensibilities of which his whole manner of life had been but a
promotion, the situation of a person under trial on a criminal charge
was actually full of distress. To him, in truth, a death such as the
recent death of those saintly brothers, seemed no glorious end. In his
case, at least, the Martyrdom, as it was called--the overpowering act
of testimony that Heaven had come down among men--would be but a common
execution: from the drops of his blood there would spring no
miraculous, poetic flowers; no eternal aroma would indicate the place
of his burial; no plenary grace, overflowing for ever upon those who
might stand around it. Had there been one to listen just then, there
would have come, from the very depth of his desolation, [215] an
eloquent utterance at last, on the irony of men's fates, on the
singular accidents of life and death.

The guards, now safely in possession of whatever money and other
valuables the prisoners had had on them, pressed them forward, over the
rough mountain paths, altogether careless of their sufferings. The
great autumn rains were falling. At night the soldiers lighted a fire;
but it was impossible to keep warm. From time to time they stopped to
roast portions of the meat they carried with them, making their
captives sit round the fire, and pressing it upon them. But weariness
and depression of spirits had deprived Marius of appetite, even if the
food had been more attractive, and for some days he partook of nothing
but bad bread and water. All through the dark mornings they dragged
over boggy plains, up and down hills, wet through sometimes with the
heavy rain. Even in those deplorable circumstances, he could but
notice the wild, dark beauty of those regions--the stormy sunrise, and
placid spaces of evening. One of the keepers, a very young soldier,
won him at times, by his simple kindness, to talk a little, with wonder
at the lad's half-conscious, poetic delight in the adventures of the
journey. At times, the whole company would lie down for rest at the
roadside, hardly sheltered from the storm; and in the deep fatigue of
his spirit, his old longing for inopportune sleep overpowere