Belle Rose: A Romance of the Cloak and Sword — page 47: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE SKIRMISH. 37 ‘The same as all the world.”’ ‘‘Parbleu! You are indeed the first inhabitant of that world whom I have met.’’ The eyes of the Hungarian shone and were dimmed turn by turn; when he opened them he looked at Jacques. ‘‘Perhaps it is better,’’ he continued, ‘‘that I should be the one to leave and you to remain. lam of no account, and you have the air of an honest young man. Accident has turned out to be right. ”’ The Hungarian was silent for some minutes; a convul- sive trembling agitated him, and his eyes were vailed. Suddenly he turned them toward Jacques filled with an extraordinary fire. ‘‘Do you believe that there is something up there?’’ he said to him, pointing to the sky with his finger. ‘*God is there.”’ ‘*Do you wish to give me your hand?”’ Jacques extended his hand to the old soldier, who pressed it with more vigor than one could have expected of a man so cruelly wounded; he threw himself back upon the straw and pulled Jacques’ coat over him. After the lapse of a moment, Jacques no longer hearing him speak or complain, leaned toward him. ‘‘How are you, my captain?’’ he said to him. ‘‘Quite well, my friend.”’ The glance was keen, the face softly colored, the voice clear. Jacques was silent, thinking that the Hungarian officer wished to sleep. When they arrived at the ambu- lance, he raised the coat; the Hungarian officer was dead. Two hours after, the troop had collected at the Abbaye de St* Georges, around tables prepared for their enemies. They laughed heartily and ate with a good appetite. If the wounded were pitied, the dead were forgotten; the living congratulated each other, and everything went off well enough. Monsieur d’Assonville conducted Jacques toa room of the abbey in which a table was set. “Sit down there,’’ he said to him. **Me! near you?’’ ** After the combat, there is no longer either master or servant—there are only soldiers. Sit down, I tell you, and relate your history to me.’’ Monsieur d’Assonville was no longer the brilliant offi- cer whose eyes flashed lightning at the moment of battle; the sadness had returned to his forehead and the pallor to his cheeks, where the sharp line of his mustache was out- lined like a pencil-mark upon alabaster; to the generous Eomicbooks (C@) AL