is wild
gallopade to distinguish his rival's face among this mass of foreigners.

As for the Englishman! Well! no doubt he had disappeared long ago out of
Crystal de Cambray's life. De Marmont had never feared him greatly. That
one look of understanding between Crystal and Clyffurde, and the
latter's strange conduct about the money at the inn, were alone
responsible for the few twinges of jealousy which de Marmont had
experienced in that quarter.

Indeed, the Englishman was a negligible quantity. De Marmont did not
fear him. There was only St. Genis, and with the royalist cause rendered
absolutely hopeless--as it would be, as it _must_ be--St. Genis and the
Comte de Cambray and all those stiff-necked aristocrats of the old
regime who had thought fit to turn their proud backs on him at Brestalou
three months ago, would be irretrievably ruined and discredited and
would have to fly the country once more . . . and Crystal, faced with
the alternative of penury in England or a brilliant existence at the
Tuileries as the wife of the Emperor's most faithful friend, would make
her choice as he--de Marmont--never doubted that any woman would.

Hope for him had already become reality. Brussels was the half-way halt
to the uttermost heights of his ambition. Fortune, the Emperor's
gratitude, the woman he loved, all waited for him there. He reached the
city just as that distant horizon in the west was lit up by a streak of
brilliant crimson from the fast sinking sun: just when--had he but
known it!--on the crest of Mont Saint Jean, Wellington had waved his hat
over his head and given the heroic British army--exhausted, but
undaunted--the order for a general charge; just when the Grand Army,
finally checked in its advance, had first set up the ominous call that
was like the passing-bell of its dying glory: "Sauve qui peut!"

III

"Sauve qui peut!"

Bobby Clyffurde heard the cry too through the fast gathering shadows of
unconsciousness that closed in round his wearied senses, and, as a film
that was so like the kindly veil of approaching Death spread over his
eyes, he raised them up just once to that vivid crimson glow far out in
the west, and on the winged chariot of the setting sun he sent up his
last sigh of gratitude to God. All day he had called for Death--all day
he had wooed her there where bullets and grape-shot were thickest--where
her huge scythe had been most busily at work.

Sons of fond mothers, husbands, sweethe