gone there were no more. And so, perhaps, his shudder was not
altogether due to the cold.

Whatever his emotions, he steeled his heart, he made his preparations
for the last try with fortune, the last card to be played, the last die
to be thrown. What would be the end of it? What would be the result
of that final desperate game? The Emperor was a master player--could
even his finesse and skill and talent and genius make up for the poor
hand that had been dealt him because the pack had been so drawn upon
that the good cards had been exhausted, used up, long since?

Did the Emperor realize that even he was not what he had been? Did he
comprehend that he was no longer the soldier, the man, of the past?
Did he realize that at last he had tried the patience of that fortune
he had worshiped, beyond the limit; and that whatever favor might be
vouchsafed him would only delay the end?

The boys might march and fight, the old guard might sustain its ancient
fame, the genius of the Emperor might flash out in full effulgence once
more--and it would make no difference. The stars on their courses
fought against Sisera. The doom sentence was written. Postponement he
might look forward to, but no final stay of judgment! A few thousand
more lives he might throw away, but these late sacrifices would avail
nothing. Oh, no; the Emperor's shudder was not altogether due to the
cold that winter morning.

CHAPTER IV

MARTEAU AND BAL-ARRET RIDE

Of this young Marteau and old Bullet Stopper, plodding along at the
best speed they could get from their horses, knew nothing. The old
grenadier was laconic by nature, and his habit of silence had become
intensified by his years of subordination and service. The young
officer was wrapped in his own thoughts. Knowing, as they did, every
foot of the way, the two were able to find short cuts, take advantage
of narrow paths over the hills and through the woods, which would have
offered no passage to the army, even if they had been aware of it.
They reached Sezanne hours before Marmont's advance, long before the
cavalry even.

Baiting their horses, and getting a welcome meal at the inn--the town
itself had as yet suffered nothing from the ravages of the Cossacks,
being too strong for raiding parties--and refusing to answer questions,
and paying no attention to wondering looks of the inhabitants, they
rode out again. Their way through the marshes of St. Gond was
dreadful. If only