seen him concealing, so that it rolled in upon the field of battle.
"Now or never," thought Cousin Hans.
"Blücher!" he cried.
"Exactly!" answered the captain, "it's the old werewolf Blücher, who comes marching upon the field with his Prussians."
So Grouchy never came; there was Napoleon, deprived of his whole right wing, and facing 150,000 men. But with never-failing coolness he gives his orders for a great change of front.
But it was too late, and the odds were too vast.
Wellington, who, by Blücher's arrival, was enabled to bring his reserve into play, now ordered his whole army to advance. And yet once more the Allies were forced to pause for a moment by a furious charge led by Ney—the lion of the day.
"Do you see him there!" cried the captain, his eyes flashing.
And Cousin Hans saw him, the romantic hero, Duke of Elchingen, Prince of Moskwa, son of a cooper in Saarlouis, Marshal and Peer of France. He saw him rush onward at the head of his battalions—five horses had been 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 saviour at the Beresina, into the hopeless struggle for the
