ut he had never faced French guns before. Would
any finger in that line press a trigger? Only God knew, but the Emperor
would soon find out. Better death than exile without wife, child,
friend, or France. On the hazard of the moment he staked all. Yet he
who could have looked into that broad breast could have seen that heart
beating as never before. Firmly he stepped on.

CHAPTER XXVII

COMRADE! GENERAL! EMPEROR!

"Behold the traitor," shouted the Marquis, his emotion lending depth to
that thin voice. "Fire, soldiers!"

No finger pressed a trigger. The silence was ghastly.

Ah! a thrill of hope in the breast of the greater Captain, of despair
in the heart of the lesser.

"By God!" muttered Yeovil, "he has lost them!"

The Marquis spurred his horse forward.

"Your oath! For France! The King! Fire!" he shouted.

And now a greater voice broke the silence.

"Comrades! Do you not know me?" said the Emperor. Was there a tremble
in his clear, magnificent voice? He paused, his speech stopped.
"Behold your General," he resumed. He waited a few seconds again and
then finally, desperately, "Let any one among you who wishes to kill
his Emperor fire--now."

He raised his voice tremendously with that last word. It almost came
with the force and clearness of a battle-cry. The Marquis sat
stupefied, his face ghastly pale.

"There is yet time," he cried hoarsely at last. "Is there none here
faithful to his King? Fire!"

But the gun-barrels were coming down. "_Comrade! General! Emperor!_"
who could be indifferent to that appeal? Disregarding the old Marquis
absolutely, as if he were not on the earth, the Emperor came nearer
smiling. He was irresistible to these soldiers when he smiled.

"Well," he said, his hands outstretched and open, "soldiers of the
Fifth, who were with me in Italy, how are you all? I am come back to
see you again, _mes enfants_," he went on genially. "Is there any one
of you who wishes to kill me?"

"No, no, Sire. Certainly not," came the cry.

"Escape," whispered the Marquis to the Englishman, "while there is yet
time to take my niece away. To you I commit her. . . . St. Laurent,
to the town with the tidings!"

"By God, no," growled Yeovil, as St. Laurent saluted and galloped
rapidly down the road. "I am going to see the end of this. The damned
cravens!" he muttered, looking at the soldiers.

"And yet," continued Napoleon to the troops, "you presented you