and the lean strong
face, burnt to a red-brown by sun and snow, half hidden in the fur
collar of his worn and weather-beaten coat.

"Konigsberg," he answered, "and Riga."

A light passed through her watching eyes, usually so kind and gay; like
the gleam of jealousy.

"Your ship?" she asked sharply.

"Yes," he answered, as the innkeeper came to tell them that their sleigh
awaited them.

It was snowing now, and a whistling, fitful wind swept down the valley
of the Vistula from Poland and the far Carpathians which made the
travellers crouch low in the sleigh and rendered talk impossible, had
there been anything to say. But there was nothing.

They found Barlasch asleep where they had left him in the inn at Thorn,
on the floor against the stove. He roused himself with the quickness and
completeness of one accustomed to brief and broken rest, and stood up
shaking himself in his clothes, like a dog with a heavy coat. He took no
notice of D'Arragon, but looked at Desiree with questioning eyes.

"It was not the Captain?" he asked.

And Desiree shook her head. Louis was standing near the door giving
orders to the landlady of the inn--a kindly Pomeranian, clean and
slow--for Desiree's comfort till the next morning.

Barlasch went close to Desiree, and, nudging her arm with exaggerated
cunning, whispered--

"Who was it?"

"Colonel de Casimir."

"With the two carriages and the treasure from Moscow?" asked Barlasch,
watching Louis out of the corner of one eye, to make sure that he did
not hear. It did not matter whether he heard or not, but Barlasch came
of a peasant stock that always speaks of money in a whisper. And when
Desiree nodded, he cut short the conversation.

The hostess came forward to tell Desiree that her room was ready,
kindly suggesting that the "gnadiges Fraulein" must need sleep and rest.
Desiree knew that Louis would go on to Konigsberg at once. She wondered
whether she should ever see him again--long afterwards, perhaps, when
all this would seem like a dream. Barlasch, breathing noisily on his
frost-bitten fingers, was watching them. Desiree shook hands with Louis
in an odd silence, and, turning on her heel, followed the woman out of
the room without looking back.

CHAPTER XXIII. AGAINST THE STREAM.

Wo viel Licht ist, ist starker Schatten.

In the mean time the last of the Great Army had reached the Niemen, that
narrow winding river in its ditch-like bed sunk below the level of