20. Last Wreaths

Everything had been unfortunate and disastrous.

“Have we much farther to go?” asked Maroussia.

“Are you very tired, my child?” said Tchetchevik.

“No, I am not tired, but I would like to know if we have much farther to go.”

“Happily, no. Do you see that forest on our right? Well then, it is there that we are going to rest. But you are exhausted, my child.”

“No, no,—I assure you; I assure you that I am not.”

“You say you are not tired,” replied her good friend, smiling. “Are you very sure of it? You know the punishment reserved in the next world for those who have not, even with the best intentions, spoken the truth in this life? To purify their tongues, they are condemned to lick a red-hot iron. Have you no fear for your little tongue?”

“I do not think that I need fear the red-hot iron,” answered Maroussia, and her white teeth shone between her lips half-opened by a smile.

Nevertheless, having reflected a moment, the little girl added, fixing her clear, large eyes on the Envoy:

“Do you know, I would rather lick the red-hot iron, than stop, when it is necessary to go on.”

“I know a way of arranging the matter,” said her good friend.

And before she had time to object, the little girl was in his arms.

“No! No! I do not want you to carry me again,” she exclaimed. “You are more tired than I am, I will not, I will not—”

And she said to herself: “It is a shame for a soldier who has been in so many battles,” the soldier was herself, “who has been conqueror and even conquered, to allow herself to be carried, unless she is wounded.”

But the strong arms of the Envoy did not know how to loosen, when they had once taken hold of anything. A few gentle words overcame the objections of the little soldier, Maroussia put her arms around the bronzed neck of her good friend and rested her head on his broad shoulder. After a whole year of exciting life, during which she had endured more than could have been expected, the little heroine was happy to find herself again a little child.