All their store of
moral energy was expended in resisting the terrific enmity of nature and
the crushing sense of irretrievable disaster. To the last they counted
among the most active, the least demoralized of the battalion; their
vigorous vitality invested them both with the appearance of an heroic
pair in the eyes of their comrades. And they never exchanged more than
a casual word or two, except one day, when skirmishing in front of the
battalion against a worrying attack of cavalry, they found themselves
cut off in the woods by a small party of Cossacks. A score of
fur-capped, hairy horsemen rode to and fro, brandishing their lances
in ominous silence; but the two officers had no mind to lay down their
arms, and Colonel Feraud suddenly spoke up in a hoarse, growling voice,
bringing his firelock to the shoulder. "You take the nearest brute,
Colonel D'Hubert; I'll settle the next one. I am a better shot than you
are."
Colonel D'Hubert nodded over his levelled musket. Their shoulders were
pressed against the trunk of a large tree; on their front enormous
snowdrifts protected them from a direct charge.
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