The crash is terrific; the Imperial phalanx is taken in flank. The contest is fierce, but it is soon over. Brave Michel, in response to our officers, replies with glorious _esprit de corps_, “The Guard dies, and never surrenders!” his words instantly fulfilled, as he falls lifeless, sword in hand, while Cambronne, grown old in the service (to whom these words have been falsely attributed), gives up his weapon to William Halkett. Halkett’s horse is shot, and Cambronne hastens away, but his captor is too quick for him, and seizing his gold aiguillette, hands him to a sergeant to be taken care of. On presses the 52nd, driving the broken Guard before it: it is a sight probably never repeated in history--one regiment traversing the field alone, in sight of the army; sending the foe like sheep into the hollow; dispersing and pushing them relentlessly back, until they turn and fly, and other corps make haste to join in that glorious progress. There is a movement along the ridge as the setting sun shines out in a burst of sinking splendour, and the Duke, with cocked hat raised above his head, gives the magic word, “The whole line will advance!” and then spurs down after the 52nd. On the rising ground near La Haye Sainte, Napoleon sits on horseback, close to a small battalion which has formed square. Jérôme, his brother, bleeding and exhausted, is with him, with honest old Drouot in his artillery uniform, in the pocket of which is a well-worn Bible; Soult and Gourgaud, Bertrand and brave young La Bédoyère are there, too: but the English Hussars are coming on at a fast trot. All day long the waves of valour have been rolling northward, and breaking against an iron-bound shore; now the tide has turned, and rushes madly south again. Nothing but confusion meets the eye: everywhere the French are in full retreat--solitary men, groups of three and four, ruined regiments, and the skeletons of squadrons. Jérôme rides close to his brother, and says in a meaning tone-- “It were well for all who bear the name of Bonaparte to perish here!” Napoleon orders some guns to open on the Hussars, and one shot hits Lord Uxbridge on the right knee as, mounted on a troop horse belonging to a sergeant-major of the 23rd Light Dragoons, he is leading the pursuit. “Here we must die on the field of battle,” exclaims the Emperor, preparing to head the weak column; but Soult seizes his bridle, saying, “They will not kill you: you will be taken prisoner”; and, held up in the saddle by two faithful officers, for he is worn out, Napoleon is galloped away in the gathering darkness. * * * * * On the left of the Brussels road some Prussian guns had come up and fired _on our men_. They were the sole representatives of Blücher’s force present before Mont St. Jean until _after_ the retreat had begun; and they had been far better absent, as their pounding was cruelly felt by Mercer’s battery and several of our regiments.