"

"I know," said the Emperor. "It comes in the nick of time."

"And I have to report, Sire, that the corps of Wittgenstein, Wrede and
of the Field-Marshal Bluecher, himself, are strung out at long intervals
to the eastward of Champaubert. They have no idea of your proximity."

"Are the divisions in supporting distance of one another?"

"No, Sire. Olsuvieff's division lies isolated at Champaubert. As to
the divisions of Sacken and Yorck I think----"

"I have already received information concerning them," said the
Emperor, "from your friend, Bullet-Stopper. He should be here."

"I am here, your Majesty," roared the grenadier, stepping forward, "and
saving your Imperial Presence I am glad to see the lad. It was I,"
continued the grenadier, addressing Marteau and presuming on the
familiarity with which Napoleon sometimes treated his men, "that fired
the shot that brought the man down from the window."

"And that shot saved us," said young Marteau. "This young peasant
here----" he bent over Pierre--"he is not dead, Sire, but sorely
wounded--he kept them out up there while we held the room here."

"But these?" asked Napoleon, looking at the prisoners.

"Renegades who had taken advantage of the absence of the Russians
pursuing the escort to the wagon-train to seize the castle."

"Why did you not impress them for the defense thereof?" asked the
Emperor. "They were French undoubtedly----"

"I found them fighting against us."

Rapidly and in few words Marteau told the story of the night, touching
lightly upon his own part, but the Emperor was soldier enough to read
between the words of the narration and reconstruct the scene instantly.
He turned to one of his officers.

"Take those scoundrels out. Put them up against the wall and shoot
them out of hand. They disgrace the name of France. Bid the surgeons
of the command come here to look to the wounded."

"They are past hope, except the French boy, your Majesty," said Yeovil,
who having recovered his own consciousness speedily had been examining
them meanwhile. "I have some skill in wounds. One Cossack is already
dead. It would be a mercy to put that other out of his misery with
that horrible scythe slash."

"The Russian officer?"

"Gone, too."

"And who are you?"

"I am a barrister," answered the Englishman in bad but comprehensible
French.

"A man of the law. You look it not," said the Emperor, smiling faintly.

"Necessity makes us all res