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.
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