n, rolled over at his feet
into the moonlight, revealing a terrible bullet-wound in its side, and
quivered and died. Some soldier had shot it.

As Rohan stared at the dead body of his four-footed friend, the strength
of mind which had enabled him to withstand all the power that Napoleon,
the conqueror of Europe, could bring against him at last went from him.
Trembling and shivering, he looked around him, overcome by utter
desolation and despair. He had held out bravely, but he could hold out
no longer; slowly and laboriously he climbed down the dark face of the
precipice, and reached the narrow strip of shingle below, just as the
moon got clear from a cloud and lighted up the cavern. Its cold rays
fell on the white face of the sergeant, who laid half on the shingle and
half in the water, crushed by the great boulder with which Rohan had
broken down the ladders.

Rohan gazed for a moment on the features of the man he had killed, and
then, with a cry of agony and despair, he fell upon his knees.

"Not on my head, O God, be the guilt!" he prayed. "Not on my head, but
on his who hunted me down and made me what I am; on his, whose red sword
shadows all the world, and drives on millions of innocent men to murder
each other! Ah, God, God, God! The men that Napoleon has slain! Is it
not high time that some man like me sought him out and killed him, and
brought peace back once more to this blood-covered earth of ours? Yes, I
will do it!"

Rising wildly to his feet, full of the strange strength and the strange
powers of madness, Rohan Gwenfern climbed up the precipice to his bed of
seaweed, and then took a path that no man had taken and lived--the
sheer, precipitous path from the roof of the cavern to the top of the
cliff.

_III.--Rohan Meets Napoleon_

As the Grand Army swept into Belgium for the last great battle against
the united powers of England, Germany, Austria, and Russia, a strange,
savage creature followed it--a gaunt, half-naked man, with long yellow
hair falling almost to his waist, and bloodshot eyes with a look of
madness in them. How he lived it is difficult to tell. He never begged,
but the soldiers threw lumps of bread at him as he prowled round their
camp-fires, asking everyone whom he met: "Where is the emperor? Where is
Napoleon? Do you think he will come this way?"

Twice he had been arrested as a spy, and hastily condemned to be shot.
But each time, on hearing his sentence of death, he gave so s