was a rout.
The soldiers of his own regiment began to rush by the spot where the
old Sergeant stood above his son's body. Recognizing him, some of his
comrades seized his arm and attempted to hurry him along; but with a
fierce exclamation the old soldier shook them off, and raising his voice
so that he was heard even above the tumult of the rout, he shouted, "Are
ye all cowards? Rally for France--For France----"

They tried to bear him along; the officers, they said, were dead; the
Prussians had captured the guns, and had broken the whole line. But it
was no use; still he shouted that rallying cry, For France, for France,
"Vive la France; Vive l'Empereur"; and steadied by the war-cry, and
accustomed to obey an officer, the men around him fell instinctively
into something like order, and for an instant the rout was arrested. The
fight was renewed over Pierre's dead body. As they had, however, truly
said, the Prussians were too strong for them. They had carried the line
and were now pouring down the hill by thousands in the ardor of hot
pursuit, the line on either side of the hill was swept away, and whilst
the gallant little band about the old soldier still stood and fought
desperately, they were soon surrounded. There was no thought of quarter;
none was asked, none was given. Cries, curses, cheers, shots, blows,
were mingled together, and clear above all rang the old soldier's
war-cry, For France, for France, "Vive la France, Vive l'Empereur." It
was the refrain from an older and bloodier field. He thought he was at
Waterloo.

Mad with excitement, the men took up the cry, and fought like tigers;
but the issue could not be doubtful.

Man after man fell, shot or clubbed down, with the cry "For France"
on his lips, and his comrades, standing astride his body, fought with
bayonets and clubbed muskets till they too fell in turn. Almost the last
one was the old Sergeant. Wounded to death, and bleeding from numberless
gashes, he still fought, shouting his battle-cry, "For France," till
his musket was hurled spinning from his shattered hand, and staggering
senseless back, a dozen bayonets were driven into his breast, crushing
out forever the brave spirit of the soldier of the empire.

It was best, for France was lost.

A few hours later the Quarter was in mourning over the terrible defeat.

* * * * *

That night a group of Prussian officers going over the field with
lanterns looking after their wounded, stopped near a