th the advance!--like the surging up of a tidal wave against
the cliffs--on with the advance! up the slopes toward the crest where
those who are in the front ranks are mowed down by the British
guns--their places taken by others from the rear--those others mowed
down again, and again replaced--falling in their hundreds as they reach
the crest, like the surf that shivers and dies as it strikes against the
cliffs.

Ney's horse is killed under him--the fifth to-day--but he quickly
extricates himself from saddle and stirrups and continues on his way--on
foot, sword in hand--the sword that conquered at Austerlitz, at Eylau
and at Moskowa. Round him the grenadiers of the Old Guard--they with
the fur bonnets and the grizzled moustaches--tighten up their ranks.

They advance behind the cavalry! and after every volley from the British
guns they shout loudly: "Vive l'Empereur!"

And anon the tidal wave--despite the ebb, despite the constant breaking
of its surf--has by sheer force of weight hurled itself upon the crest
of the plateau.

The Brunswickers on the left are scattered. Cleeves and Lloyd have been
forced to abandon their guns: the British artillery is silenced and the
chasseurs of Michel hold the extreme edge of the upland, and turn a
deadly fusillade upon Colin Halkett's brigade already attacked by
Milhaud and his guards and now severely shaken.

"See the English General!" cries Duchaud to his cuirassiers, "he is
between two fires. He cannot escape."

No! he cannot but he seizes the colours of the 33rd whose young
lieutenant has just fallen, and who threaten to yield under the
devastating cross-fire: he brandishes the tattered colours, high up
above his head--as high as he can hold them--he calls to his men to
rally, and then falls grievously wounded.

But his guards have rallied. They stand firm now, and Duchaud, chewing
his grey moustache, murmurs his appreciation of so gallant a foe.

"That side will win," he mutters, "who can best keep on killing."

IV

"Up, guards, and at them!"

Maitland's brigade of guards had been crouching in the
corn--crouching--waiting for the order to charge--red-coated lions in
the ripening corn--ready to spring at the word.

And Death the harvester in chief stands by with his scythe ready for the
mowing.

"Up, guards, and at them!"

It is Maitland and his gallant brigade of guards--out of the corn they
rise and front the three battalions of Michel's chasseurs who were t