wrought in his countenance, the ghastly pallor of his face, his
pinched nose, his dull, sunken eyes, and having been notified at five
o'clock that there was fighting at Bazeilles, had come forth to see,
sadly and silently, like a phantom with rouged cheeks.

There was a brick-kiln near by, behind which there was safety from the
rain of bullets that kept pattering incessantly on its other front and
the shells that burst at every second on the road. The mounted group
had halted.

"Sire," someone murmured, "you are in danger--"

But the Emperor turned and motioned to his staff to take refuge in the
narrow road that skirted the kiln, where men and horses would be
sheltered from the fire.

"Really, Sire, this is madness. Sire, we entreat you--"

His only answer was to repeat his gesture; probably he thought that
the appearance of a group of brilliant uniforms on that deserted road
would draw the fire of the batteries on the left bank. Entirely
unattended he rode forward into the midst of the storm of shot and
shell, calmly, unhurriedly, with his unvarying air of resigned
indifference, the air of one who goes to meet his appointed fate.
Could it be that he heard behind him the implacable voice that was
urging him onward, that voice from Paris: "March! march! die the
hero's death on the piled corpses of thy countrymen, let the whole
world look on in awe-struck admiration, so that thy son may reign!"
--could that be what he heard? He rode forward, controlling his
charger to a slow walk. For the space of a hundred yards he thus rode