that
must be reigning in Brussels now--and of the consternation at Ghent
where the poor old Bourbon King was probably mourning his dead hopes and
his vanished throne.

In Brussels women would be weeping; and Crystal--forlorn and
desolate--would perhaps be sitting at her window watching the stream of
fugitives that came in--wounded and exhausted--from the field of battle,
recounting tales of a catastrophe which had no parallel in modern times:
and Crystal, seeing and hearing this, would think of the man she loved,
and believing him to be dead would break her heart with sorrow.

And when Bobby thought of that he was spurred to fresh effort, and he
pulled himself together with a desperate tension of every nerve and
sinew, fighting exhaustion, ignoring pain, conjuring up the vision of
Crystal's blue eyes and her pleading look as she begged him to save her
from lifelong sorrow and the anguish of future loneliness. Then he no
longer heard the weird and incessant cannonade, he no longer saw the
desolation of this utter confusion around him, he no longer felt
exhausted, or the weight of that lifeless, impeding burden upon his
saddle-bow.

Stray bands of fugitives with pursuers hot on their heels passed him by,
stray bullets flew to right and left of him, whizzing by with their
eerie, whistling sound; he was now on the outskirts of the great
pursuit--anon he reached the crest of Mont Saint Jean at last, and
almost blindly struck back eastward in the direction of the forest of
Soigne.

It was blind instinct--and nothing more--that kept him on his horse: he
clung to his saddle with half-paralysed knees, just as a drowning man
will clutch a floating bit of wreckage that helps him to keep his head
above the water. The stately trees of Soigne were not far ahead now:
through the forest any track that bore to the left would strike the
Brussels road; only a little more strength--another effort or two--the
cool solitude of the wood would ease the weight of the burden and the
throbbing of nerves and brain. The setting sun shone full upon the leafy
edge of the wood; hazelnut and beech and oak and clumps of briar rose
quivered under the rough kiss of the wind that blew straight across the
lowland from the southwest, bringing with it still the confusion of
sounds--the weird cannonades and dismal bugle-calls--in such strange
contrast to the rustle of the leaves and the crackling of tiny twigs in
the tangled coppice.

How cool and delic