"Time for all good prisoners
to be in bed, and Heaven temper the wind to the thin blanket! It is
snowing--snowing furiously."
"Do they suffer much in these winters?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"They die sometimes, though your brother does his best to prevent it.
It promises to be a hard season for them."
"I wish I could help; but Endymion--my brother does not approve of
ladies mixing themselves up in these affairs."
"Yet he has carried off half-a-dozen to the supper-room, where at a
side table three of my compatriots are vending knick-knacks, to add
a little beef to their _ragouts_."
"Is it that which has annoyed General Rochambeau?"
She had recognised the phrase, but let it pass.
"It is."
She understood. For some reason her brain was unusually clear tonight.
At any other time she would have defended, or at least excused, her
brother. She knew it, and found time to wonder at her new practicality
as she answered:
"I must think of some way to help."
She saw his brow clear--saw that had risen in his esteem--and was
glad.
"To you, Mademoiselle, we shall find it easy to be grateful."
"By helping them," she explained, "I may also be helping my brother.
You do not understand him as I do, and you sharpen your wit upon him,"
"Be assured it does not hurt him, Mademoiselle."
"No, but it hurts _me_."
He bowed gravely.
"It shall not hurt you, again.
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