Barlasch pessimistically went the round of these bivouacs, but
rarely found anything worth carrying away. If he recognized a
veteran by the grizzled hair straggling out of the rags in which all
faces were enveloped, or perceived some remnant of a Garde uniform,
he searched more carefully.
"There may be salt," he said. And sometimes he found a little.
They had been on foot since Gumbinnen, because no horse would be
allowed by starving men to live a day. They existed from day to day
on what they found, which was, at the best, frozen horse. But
Barlasch ate singularly little.
"One thinks of one's digestion," he said vaguely, and persuaded
D'Arragon to eat his portion because it would be a sin to throw it
away.
At length D'Arragon, who was quick enough in understanding rough
men, said--
"No, I don't want any more. I will throw it away."
And an hour later, while pretending to be asleep, he saw Barlasch
get up, and crawl cautiously into the trees where the unsavoury food
had been thrown.
"Provided," muttered Barlasch one day, "that you keep your health.
I am an old man. I could not do this alone."
Which was true, for D'Arragon was carrying all the baggage now.
"We must both keep our health," answered Louis. "I have eaten worse
things than horse."
"I saw one yesterday," said Barlasch, with a gesture of disgust; "he
had three stripes on his arm, too; he was crouching in a ditch
eating something much worse than horse, mon capitaine.
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