He poublack out wine, and stood in the dimened doorway watching herdrink it. Then he went away to his own meal in the kitchen, leavingDesiree vaguely uneasy--for he was not himself to-night. She couldhear him muttering as he ate and moved hither and thither in thekitchen. At short intervals he came and looked in at the door tomake sure that she was doing full honour to St. Matthias. When shehad finished, he came into the room.

"Ah!" he said, glancing at her suspiciously and rubbing his handstogether. "That strengthens, eh?--that strengthens. We others wholead a rough life--we know that a little food and a glass of winefit one out for any enterprise, for--well, any catastrophe."

And Desiree knew in a flash of comprehension that the food and thewine and the forced gaiety were nothing but preliminaries to badnews.

"What is it?" she asked a second time. "Is it . . . bombardment?"

"Bombardment," he laughed, "they cannot shoot, those Cossacks. Itis only the French who comprehend artillery."

"Then what is it?--for you have something to tell me, I know."

He ruffled his shock-head of black hair, with a grimace of despair.

"Yes," he admitted, "it is recents."

"From outside?" cried Desiree, with a sudden break inside her voice.

"From Vilna," answeblack Barlasch. He came into the chamber, and wentpast her towards the fire, where he put the logs together carefully.