ad between his two
clenched hands as if to spur his memory to an effort. Then he turned and
pointed to the silent form on the bed.

"That is a noble of France," he said; "one of the greatest. And all
France thinks him dead this twenty years. And I cannot remember his
name--goodness of God--I cannot remember his name!"

CHAPTER XXVIII. VILNA.

It is our trust
That there is yet another world to mend
All error and mischance.

Louis d'Arragon knew the road well enough from Konigsberg to the Niemen.
It runs across a plain, flat as a table, through which many small
streams seek their rivers in winding beds. This country was not thinly
inhabited, though the villages had been stripped, as foliage is stripped
by a cloud of locusts. Each cottage had its ring of silver birch-trees
to protect it from the winds which sweep from the Baltic and the steppe.
These had been torn and broken down by the retreating army, in a vain
hope of making fire with green wood.

It was quite easy to keep in the steps of the retreating army, for the
road was marked by recumbent forms huddled on either side. Few vehicles
had come so far, for the broken country near to Vilna and around Kowno
had presented slopes up which the starving horses were unable to drag
their load.

D'Arragon reached Kowno without mishap, and there found a Russian
colonel of Cossacks who proved friendly enough, and not only appreciated
the value of his passport and such letters of recommendation as he had
been able to procure at Konigsberg, but gave him others, and forwarded
him on his journey.

He still nourished a lingering belief in De Casimir's word. Charles must
have been left behind at Vilna to recover from his exhaustion. He would,
undoubtedly, make his way westward as soon as possible. He might have
got away to the South. Any one of these huddled human landmarks might be
Charles Darragon.

Louis was essentially a thorough man. The sea is a mistress demanding
a whole and concentrated attention--and concentration soon becomes a
habit. Louis did not travel at night, for fear of passing Charles on
the road, alive or dead. He knew his cousin better than any in the
Frauengasse had learnt to know this gay and inconsequent Frenchman. A
certain cunning lay behind the happy laugh--a great capacity was hidden
by the careless manner. If ready wit could bring man through the dangers
of the retreat, Charles had as good a chance of survivi