"It is a thing to say your prayers to," he said gruffly.
By an effort he kept his eyes averted from the food on the table.
"I met a baker on the bridge," he said, "and offered it to him for a
loaf, but he refused."
And there was a whole history of human suffering and temptation--of
the human fall--in his curt laugh. While Desiree was looking at the
treasure in speechless admiration, he turned suddenly and took the
bread and meat in his grimy hands. His crooked fingers closed over
the loaf, making the crust crack, and for a second the expression of
his face was not human. Then he hurried to the room that had been
his, like a dog that seeks to hide its greed in its kennel.
In a surprisingly short time he came back, the greyness all gone
from his face, though his eyes still glittered with the dry, hard
light of starvation. He went back to the chair near the door, and
sat down.
"Seven hundred miles," he said, looking down at his feet with a
shake of the head, "seven hundred miles in six weeks."
Then he glanced at her and out through the open door, to make sure
none could overhear.
"Because I was afraid," he added in a whisper. "I am easily
frightened. I am not brave."
Desiree shook her head and laughed. Women have from all time
accepted the theory that a uniform makes a man courageous.
"They had to abandon the guns," he went on, "soon after quitting
Moscow. The horses were starving.
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