Gudin walked on, his diaries left behind, musing on India and trying to ignore Colonel Caillou's insults. The pregnant girl was crying and the garrison surgeon, a fastidious Parisian who had hated serving in the Pyrenees, claimed she would die if he did not cut her open.

"The baby is sideways, " he told Gudin. "It should be headfirst."

"If you cut her, she'll die, " said Gudin.

"So?" The surgeon despised soldiers' women. "She'll die if I don't cut her."

"Just keep her alive as far as Irati, " Gudin said, "and there you can operate."

"If she lives that long, " the surgeon muttered, and just then a dull rumble sounded from the mountains ahead. It sounded like distant thunder, but there were no storm clouds over the peaks and a second after the rumble had faded the small wind brought the crackle of musketry.

"You see, " Caillou spurred back down the column with a look of spiteful triumph. "There's enemy ahead."

"We don't know that, " Gudin said. "That sound could have come from anywhere."

"They're waiting for us, " Caillou said, pointing dramatically towards the hills. "And if we'd abandoned the women, we'd be there already. It's your doing, Gudin. I promise if my Eagle is lost, the Emperor will know it's your doing."

"You must tell the Emperor whatever you wish, " Gudin said in resignation.

"So leave the women here now. Leave them, " Caillou insisted. "March to the guns, Colonel. Get there before dark."

"I will not leave the women, " Gudin said. "I will not leave them. And we shall be at Irati long before nightfall. It is not so far now."

Colonel Gudin sighed and walked on. His heels were blistering but he would not retrieve his horse, for he knew the lieutenant's need was greater than his.