rom beyond the grave. He leads them afresh against the enemy, as
if they were alive, and nothing can stand against them, because they are
a ghostly force, not an army of this world."

Alexander the Blessed grew sad; but, after thinking a moment, he said:
"Messrs. Generals and Field-marshals, we Russians are a people of more
than ordinary courage. We have fought with all nations, and never yet
before any of them have we laid our faces in the dust. If God has
brought us, at last, to fight with corpses--his holy will be done! We
will go against the dead!"

So he led his army to the field of Kulikova, and there waited for the
miscreant Napoleonder. And soon afterward, Napoleonder, the evil one,
sends him an envoy with a paper saying, "Submit, Alexander
Blagoslovenni, and I will show you favor above all others."

But Alexander the Blessed was a proud man, who held fast his
self-respect. He would not speak to the envoy, but he took the paper
that the envoy had brought, and drew on it an insulting picture, with
the words, "Is this what you want?" and sent it back to Napoleonder.

Then they fought and slashed one another on the field of Kulikova, and
in a short time or a long time our men began to overcome the forces of
the enemy. One by one they shot or cut down all of Napoleonder's
field-marshals, and finally drew near to Napoleonder himself.

"Your time has come!" they cry to him. "Surrender!"

But the villain sits there on his horse, rolling his goggle-eyes like an
owl, and grinning.

"Wait a minute," he says coolly. "Don't be in too big a hurry. A tale is
short in telling, but the deed is long a-doing."

Then he pronounces his conjuring-word, "Bonaparty"--six hundred and
sixty-six, the number of the Beast.

Instantly there is a great rushing sound, and the earth is shaken as if
by an earthquake. Our soldiers look--and drop their hands. In all parts
of the field appear threatening battalions, with bayonets shining in the
sun, torn flags waving over terrible hats of fur, and tramp! tramp!
tramp! on come the thousands of phantom men, with faces yellow as
camomile, and empty holes under their bushy eyebrows.

Alexander, the Blessed Tsar, was stricken with terror. Terror-stricken
were all his generals and field-marshals. Terror-stricken also was the
whole Russian army. Shaking with fear, they wavered at the advance of
the dead, gave way suddenly in a panic, and finally fled in whatever
direction their eyes happened t