nothing.

"But to-day they have an enemy who is not easy to deal with. They
stand where they stand, these Englishmen, and if they are forced a step
backwards, they regain their position the next moment. They have no
eagles and no Emperor; when they fight they think neither of military
glory nor of revenge; but they think of home. The thought of never
seeing again the oak-trees of Old England is the most melancholy an
Englishman knows. Ah, no, there is one which is still worse: that of
coming home dishonored. And when they think that the proud fleet, which
they know is lying to the northward waiting for them, would deny them
the honor of a salute, and that Old England would not recognize her
sons--then they grip their muskets tighter, they forget their wounds and
their flowing blood; silent and grim, they clinch their teeth, and hold
their post, and die like men."

Twenty times were the squares broken and reformed, and twelve thousand
brave Englishmen fell. Cousin Hans could understand how Wellington wept,
when he said, "Night or Bluecher!"

The captain had in the mean time left Belle-Alliance, and was spying
around in the grass behind the bench, while he continued his exposition
which grew more and more vivid: "Wellington was now in reality beaten
and a total defeat was inevitable," cried the captain, in a sombre
voice, "when this fellow appeared on the scene!" And as he said this, he
kicked the stone which Cousin Hans had seen him concealing, so that it
rolled in upon the field of battle.

"Now or never," thought Cousin Hans.

"Bluecher!" he cried.

"Exactly!" answered the captain, "it's the old werewolf Bluecher, who
comes marching upon the field with his Prussians."

So Grouchy never came; there was Napoleon, deprived of his whole right
wing, and facing 150,000 men. But with never failing coolness he gives
his orders for a great change of front.

But it was too late, and the odds were too vast.

Wellington, who, by Bluecher's arrival, was enabled to bring his reserve
into play, now ordered his whole army to advance. And yet once more
the Allies were forced to pause for a moment by a furious charge led by
Ney--the lion of the day.

"Do you see him there!" cried the captain, his eyes flashing.

And Cousin Hans saw him, the romantic hero, Duke of Elchingen, Prince of
Moskwa, son of a cooper in Saarlouis, Marshal and Peer of France. He saw
him rush onward at the head of his battalions--five horses had been