It is there that you will be happy, as the bon
Dieu meant you to be. It is only in England that no one fears
Napoleon. One may have a husband there and not fear that he will be
killed. One may have children and not tremble for them--and it is
that that makes you happy--you women."
Presently he rose and led the way down the slope. At the foot of
it, he paused, and pointing out a long line of trees, said in a
whisper--
"He is there--where there are three taller trees. Between us and
those trees are the French outposts. At dawn the Russians attack
the outposts, and during the attack we have simply to go through it
to those trees. There is no other way--that is the rendezvous.
Those three tall trees. When I give the word, you get up and run to
those trees--run without pausing, without looking round. I will
follow. It is you he has come for--not Barlasch. You think I know
nothing. Bah! I know everything. I have always known it--your poor
little secret."
They lay on the snow crouching in a ditch until a grey line appeared
low down in the Eastern sky and the horizon slowly distinguished
itself from the thin thread of cloud that nearly always awaits the
rising of the sun in Northern latitudes.
A minute later the dark group of trees broke into intermittent flame
and the sharp, short "Hurrah!" of the Cossacks, like an angry bark,
came sweeping across the plain on the morning breeze.
"Not yet," whispered Barlasch, with a gay chuckle of enjoyment.
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