Barlasch sat upright, a thick motionless figure, foursquare to the cutting wind. He drove with one hand at a time, sitting on the other to restore circulation between whiles. It was impossible to distinguish the form of his garments, for he was wrapped round in a woollen shawl like a mummy, showing only his eyes beneath the ragged fur of a sheepskin cap upon which the rime caused by the warmth of the horses and his own breath had frozen like a coating of frosted silver.
Désirée was huddled down beside him, with her head bent forward so as to protect her face from the wind, which seared like a hot iron. She wore a hood of white fur lined with a darker fur, and when she lifted her face only her eyes, bright and wakeful, were visible.
“If you are warm, you may go to sleep,” said Barlasch in a mumbling voice, for his face was drawn tight and his lips stiffened by the cold. “But if you shiver, you must stay awake.”
But Désirée seemed to have no wish for sleep. Whenever Barlasch leant forward to peer beneath her hood she looked round at him with wakeful eyes. Whenever, to see if she were still awake, he gave her an unceremonious nudge, she nudged back again instantly. As the night wore on, she grew more wakeful. When they halted at a wayside inn, which must have been minutely described to Barlasch by Sebastian, and Désirée accepted the innkeeper’s offer of a cup of coffee by the fire while fresh horses were being put into harness, she was wide-awake and looked at Barlasch with a reckless laugh as he shook the rime from his eyebrows. In response he frowningly scrutinized as much of her face as he could see, and shook his head disapprovingly.
“You laugh when there is nothing to laugh at,” he said grimly. “Foolish. It makes people wonder what is in your mind.”
“There is nothing in my mind,” she answered gaily.
“Then there is something in your heart, and that is worse!” said Barlasch, which made Désirée look at him doubtfully.
They had done forty miles with the same horses, and were nearly halfway. For some hours the road had followed the course of the Vistula on the high tableland above the river, and would so continue until they reached Thorn.
“You must sleep,” said Barlasch curtly, when they were once more on the road. She sat silent beside him for an hour. The horses were fresh, and covered the ground at a great pace. Barlasch was no driver, but he was skilful with the horses, and husbanded their strength at every hill.
“If we go on like this, when shall we arrive?” asked Désirée suddenly.
“By eight o’clock, if all goes well.”
“And we shall find Monsieur Louis d’Arragon awaiting us at Thorn?”
Barlasch shrugged his shoulders doubtfully.
“He said he would be there,” he muttered, and, turning in his seat, he looked down at her with some contempt.
“That is like a woman,” he said. “They think all men are fools except one, and that one is only to be compared with the bon Dieu.”
Désirée could not have heard the remark, for she made no answer and sat silent, leaning more and more heavily against her companion. He changed the reins to his other hand, and drove with it for an hour after all feeling had left it. Désirée was asleep. She was still sleeping when, in the dim light of a late dawn, Barlasch saw the distant tower of Thorn Cathedral.
They were no longer alone on the road now, but passed a number of heavy market-sleighs bringing produce and wood to the town. Barlasch had been in Thorn before. Désirée was still sleeping when he turned the horses into the crowded yard of the Drei Kronen. The sleighs and carriages were packed side by side as in a warehouse, but the stables were empty. No eager host came out to meet the travellers. The innkeepers of Thorn had long ceased to give themselves that trouble. For the city was on the direct route of the retreat, and few who got so far had any money left.
Slowly and painfully Barlasch unwound himself and disentangled his legs. He tried first one and then the other, as if uncertain whether he could walk. Then he staggered numbly across the yard to the door of the inn.
A few minutes later Désirée woke up. She was in a room warmed by a great white stove and dimly lighted by candles. Someone was pulling off her gloves and feeling her hands to make sure that they were not frostbitten. She looked sleepily at a white coffeepot standing on the table near the candles; then her eyes, still uncomprehending, rested on the face of the man who was loosening her hood, which was hard with rime and ice. He had his back to the candles, and was half-hidden by the collar of his fur coat, which met the cap pressed down over his ears.
He turned towards the table to lay aside her gloves, and the light fell on his face. Désirée was wide-awake in an instant, and Louis d’Arragon, hearing her move, turned anxiously to look at her again. Neither spoke for a minute. Barlasch was holding his numbed hand against the stove, and was grinding his teeth and muttering at the pain of the restored circulation.
Désirée shook the icicles from her hood, and they rattled like
