shot under him with his sword in his hand, his uniform torn to shreds,
hatless, and with the blood streaming down his face.

And the battalions rallied and swept ahead; they followed their Prince
of Moskwa, their savior at the Beresina, into the hopeless struggle
for the Emperor and for France. Little did they dream that, six months
later, the King of France would have their dear prince shot as a traitor
to his country in the gardens of the Luxembourg.

There he rushed around, rallying and directing his troops, until there
was nothing more for the general to do; then he plied his sword like a
common soldier until all was over, and he was carried away in the rout.
For the French army fled.

The Emperor threw himself into the throng; but the terrible hubbub
drowned his voice, and in the twilight no one knew the little man on the
white horse.

Then he took his stand in a little square of his Old Guard, which still
held out upon the plain; he would fain have ended his life on his last
battlefield. But his generals flocked around him, and the old grenadiers
shouted: "Withdraw, Sire! Death will not have you."

They did not know that it was because the _Emperor_ had forfeited his
right to die as a French soldier. They led him half-resisting from the
field; and, unknown in his own army, he rode away into the darkness of
the night, having lost everything. "So ended the battle of Waterloo,"
said the captain, as he seated himself on the bench and arranged his
neck-cloth.--Cousin Hans thought with indignation of Uncle Frederick,
who had spoken of Captain Schrappe in such a tone of superiority. He
was, at least, a far more interesting personage than an old official
mill-horse like Uncle Frederick.

Hans now went about and gathered up the gloves and other small objects
which the generals, in the heat of the fight, had scattered over the
battle-field to mark the positions; and, as he did so, he stumbled upon
old Bluecher. He picked him up and examined him carefully.

He was a hard lump of granite, knubbly as sugar-candy, which almost
seemed to bear a personal resemblance to "Feldtmarschall Vorwaerts." Hans
turned to the captain with a polite bow.

"Will you allow me, captain, to keep this stone. It will be the best
possible memento of this interesting and instructive conversation, for
which I am really most grateful to you." And thereupon he put Bluecher
into his coat-tail pocket.

The captain assured him that it had been a