felt that the next few
minutes must see him tumbling head-foremost from the saddle.

Far away beyond the milestone on his right--in a meadow, the boundary of
which touched the edge of the wood--women were busy tossing hay after
the rain, all unconscious of the simple little tragedy that was being
enacted so close to them: their cotton dresses and the kerchiefs round
their heads stood out as trenchant, vivid notes of colour against the
dull grey landscape beyond. A couple of haycarts were standing by:
beside them two men were lighting their pipes. The wind was playing with
the hay as the women tossed it, and their shrill laughter came echoing
across the meadow.

And even now the ground was shaken with the repercussion of distant
volleys of artillery, and along the road a stream of men were running
toward Brussels, horses galloped by frightened and riderless, or
dragging broken gun-carriages behind them in the mud. The whole of that
stream was carrying the news of Wellington's disaster to Brussels and to
Ghent: not knowing that behind them had already sounded the passing bell
for the Empire of France.

Bobby had drawn rein on the edge of the wood to give his horse a rest,
and for a while he watched that running stream, longing to shout to them
to turn back--there was no occasion to run--to see what had been done,
to take a share in that glorious, final charge for victory. But his
throat was too parched for a shout, and as he watched, he saw in among a
knot of mounted men--fugitives like the others, pale of face, anxious of
mien and with that intent look which men have when life is precious and
has got to be saved--he saw a man in the same uniform that St. Genis
wore--a Brunswicker in black coat and silver galoons--who stared at him,
persistently and strangely, as he rode by.

The face though much altered by three days' growth of beard, and by the
set of the shako worn right down to the brows, was nevertheless a
familiar one. Bobby--stupefied, deprived for the moment of thinking
powers, through sheer exhaustion and burning pain--taxed his weary brain
in vain to understand the look of recognition which the man in the black
uniform cast upon him as he passed.

Until a lightly spoken: "Hullo, my dear Clyffurde!" uttered gaily as the
rider drew near to the edge of the road, brought the name of "Victor de
Marmont!" to Bobby's quivering lips.

And just for the space of sixty seconds Fate rubbed her gaunt hands
complacent