"He is coming slowly," replied Louis. "He came slowly behind you
all the time, so as to draw the fire away from you."
They turned and waited for Barlasch, who seemed to be going in the
wrong direction with an odd vagueness in his movements. Louis ran
towards him with Desiree at his heels.
"Ca-y-est," said Barlasch; which cannot be translated, and yet has
many meanings. "Ca-y-est."
And he sat down slowly on the snow. He sat quite upright and rigid,
and in the cold light of the Baltic dawn they saw the meaning of his
words. One hand was within his fur coat. He drew it out, and
concealed it from Desiree behind his back. He did not seem to see
them, but presently he put out his hand and lightly touched Desiree.
Then he turned to Louis with that confidential drop of the voice
with which he always distinguished his friends from those who were
not his friends.
"What is she doing?" he asked. "I cannot see in the dark. Is it
not dark? I thought it was. What is she doing? Saying a prayer?
What--because I have my affair? Hey, mademoiselle. You may leave
it to me. I will get in, I tell you that."
He put his finger to his nose, and then shook it from side to side
with an air of deep cunning.
"Leave it to me. I shall slip in. Who will stop an old man, who
has many wounds? Not St. Peter, assuredly. Let him try. And if
the good God hears a commotion at the gate, He will only shrug His
shoulders.
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