Angel of Fionas

Fiona heard the sound of approaching horse hooves amidst the silent frozen world.

A rider appeared in front of her, his deep purple cloak fluttering behind him, snapping in the gale. He was in a hurry, his legs tightly clasping both sides of the horse''s body, glancing around from time to time, as if eager to avoid someone''s manhunt, yet his posture showed no sign of discomfiture.

As if sensing the child''s gaze, he pulled the reins and turned his horse''s head, riding towards the little girl.

When he drew near, Fiona saw that the man was about thirty years old, with dark hair and black eyes, a square face, an exalted demeanor, and an elegant mustache above his lips. Except for the sharp glint in his eyes that might seem offensive, his appearance, like the horse he rode, conspicuously displayed lofty lineage.

From his mount and attire, Fiona guessed he must be a bigwig. He halted his steed, gazing down at the pretty child with a keen interest.

"What is your name?" He asked her, sitting on his horse.

"Fiona." She looked up at the man without timidity.

"Would you like to come with me?"

"But I don''t know your name yet."

"I am the Marquis de Sèvremont."

Leaning down from his horse, he extended his hand in black leather gloves towards the girl.

-----------------------

"I forgot to tell you, Edith," as they were about to enter the military camp, Andre said to her, "I just received the order from Paris. We shall prepare to return now."

Edith nodded, her expression devoid of emotion, and then turned to gaze deeply once more at the endless expanse of snowfield behind her - she had just recalled that this was the last day of the turbulent and magnificent Quatre-vingt Treize.