litical friends did not dare to come
near his house. Desiree was alone in this hopeless world with Barlasch,
who was on duty now in one of the trenches near the river. He went out
in the morning, and only returned at night. He had just come in, and she
could see by the light of the single candle that his face was grey and
haggard, with deep lines drawn downwards from eyes to chin. Desiree's
own face had lost all its roundness and the bloom of her northern
girlhood.

Barlasch glanced at her, and bit his lip. He had brought nothing with
him. At one time he had always managed to bring something to the house
every day--a chicken, or a turnip, or a few carrots. But to-night there
was nothing. And he was tired out. He did not sit down, however, but
stood breathing on his fingers and rubbing them together to restore
circulation. He pushed the candle farther forward on the table, so that
it cast a better light upon her face.

"Yes," he said, "it is often so. I, who speak to you, have seen it so a
dozen times in my life. When it is easier to sit down and die. Bah! That
is a fine thing to do--a brave thing--to sit down and die."

"I am not going to do it, so do not make that mistake," said Desiree,
with a laugh that had no mirth in it.

"But you would like to. Listen. It is not what you feel that matters; it
is what you do. Remember that."

There was an unusual vigour in his voice. Of late, since the death of
Sebastian, Barlasch seemed to have fallen victim to the settled apathy
which lives within a prison wall and broods over a besieged city. It is
a sort of silent mourning worn by the soul for a lost liberty. Dantzig
had soon succumbed to it, for the citizens had not even the satisfaction
of being quite sure that they were deserving of the world's sympathy.
It soon spread to the soldiers who were defending a Prussian city for a
French Emperor who seemed to have forgotten them.

But to-night Barlasch seemed to be more energetic. Desiree looked round
over her shoulder. He had not laid on the table any contribution to
a bare larder; and yet his manner was that of one who has prepared a
surprise and is waiting to enjoy its effect. He was restless, moving
from one foot to another, rubbing together his crooked fingers and
darting sidelong glances at her face.

"What is it?" she asked suddenly, and Barlasch gave a start as if he had
been detected in some deceit. He bustled forward to the smouldering fire
and held his hands ove