rounded him, listening respectfully though with
gloomy faces to every word which fell, weighty and momentous as a sentence
of death, from the white, compressed lips. But a higher power than Napoleon
was sending its decrees of death even into the group of generals gathered
around the master of the world; cannon balls had no reverence for the
Caesar's presence; they tore from his side his dearest friend, his faithful
follower, Marshal Lannes; they killed Generals St. Hilaire, Albuquerque and
d'Espagne, the leaders of his brave troops, the curassiers, three thousand
of whom remained that day on the battlefield; they wounded Marshal Massena,
Marshal Bessieres, and six other valiant generals.

When evening came the battle was decided. Archduke Charles was the victor;
the French army was forced back to the island of Lobau, whose bridges had
been severed by the burning ships; the triumphant Austrians were encamped
around Esslingen and Aspern, whose unknown names have been illumined since
that day with eternal renown.

The island of Lobau presented a terrible chaos of troops, horses, wounded
men, artillery, corpses and luggage; the wounded and dying wailed and
moaned, the uninjured fairly shrieked and roared with fury. And, as if
Nature wished to add her bold alarum to the mournful dirge of men, the
storm-lashed waves of the Danube thundered around the island, dashed their
foam-crested surges on the shore, and, in many places, created crimson
lakes where, instead of boats, blood-stained bodies floated with yawning
wounds. It seemed as if the Styx had flowed to Lobau to spare the ferryman
Charon the arduous task of conveying so many corpses to the nether world,
and for the purpose transformed itself into a single vast funeral barge.

Napoleon, the victor of so many battles, the man before whom all Europe
trembled, all the kings of the world bowed in reverence and admiration; he
who, with a wave of his hand, had overturned and founded dynasties, was now
forced to witness all this--compelled to suffer and endure like any
ordinary mortal!

He sat on a log near the shore, both elbows propped on his knees, and his
pale iron face supported by his small white hands, glittering with
diamonds, gazing at the roaring waves of the Danube and the throng of human
beings who surrounded him.

Behind him, in gloomy silence, stood his generals--he did not notice them.
His soldiers marched before him--he did not heed them. But they saw him,
an