ich only a great and pure passion can give!--he saw the
danger at the very moment when it was born--at the precise instant when
it threatened that handful of black-coated men, one of whose officers
was named St. Genis. He saw the first sign of wavering, of stupefaction,
that followed the impetuous charge: he saw the gaps in the ranks after
that initial deadly volley from the tirailleurs. It almost seemed as if
he could hear those shouts of "Vive l'Empereur!" and the rallying cry of
commanding officers--it was all so near--not more than three hundred
yards away, and the clear, stormy atmosphere carried sights and sounds
upon its wing.

Another volley from the tirailleurs and the Dutch and Brunswickers
turned to fly: in vain did their officers call, they wanted to get away!
They tried to fly--to run, for now the chasseurs were at them with
bayonets--they tried to run, but the ground was littered with their own
wounded and dead--with the wounded and the dead of a long day of
carnage: they stumbled at every step--fell over the dying and the
wounded--over dead and wounded horses--over piles of guns and swords and
bayonets, and sabretaches, over forsaken guns and broken carriages,
litter that impeded them in front even as they were driven with the
bayonet from the rear.

Bobby saw it all, for they were coming now--pursued and pursuers--as
fast as ever they could; they were coming, these flying, black-coated
men, casting away their gay trappings as well as their arms, trying to
run--to get away--but stumbling, falling all the time--picking
themselves up, falling and running again.

And in that one short moment while the whole brief tragedy was enacted
before his eyes, Bobby also saw, in a vision that was equally swift and
fleeting, the blue eyes of Crystal drowned in tears. He saw her with
fair head drooping like a lily, he saw the quiver of her lips, heard the
moan of pain that would come to her lips when the man she loved was
brought home to her--dead. And in that same second--so full of
portent--Bobby understood why it was that her sweet image had called to
him for help just now. Again she called, again she beckoned--her blue
eyes looked on him with an appeal that was all-compelling: her two dear
hands were clasped and she begged of him that he should be her friend.

Such visions come from God! no man sees them save he whose soul is great
and whose heart is pure. Poor Bobby Clyffurde--lonely, heart-broken,
desolate--saw