Marshal Ney sent for more infantry to renew the attack. “Où voulez vous que j’en prenne: voulez vous que j’en fasse?” was the Emperor’s impatient reply--“Where can I get them: do you wish me to make them?” The long June day was drawing into evening, and shadows began to lengthen across the fields. Wellington, who had always been seen where the fire was hottest, rode with a calm, inscrutable face, followed by a sadly diminished staff, his eagle eye taking note of the strength and weakness of our line. The Hussars had been moved in rear of the centre; and Adams’ Brigade took position immediately behind the ridge. In front of the clover field where the 52nd stood in square, a pretty little tortoiseshell kitten, which had been frightened out of Hougoumont by the firing, lay dead--a strange feature in the scene of destruction. The men were growing accustomed to the hideous sights and sounds around them, and became impatient at the inactivity which doomed them to endure without reprisal. Suddenly the brass guns blazed forth once more upon us; the _pas de charge_ was rolling from a thousand drums; a serried line was seen advancing along our entire front, and, led by the Emperor himself, on his grey charger Marie, his famous _redingote gris_ open and showing the well-known dark-green chasseur coat, the Grenadiers of the Guard marched in solid columns into the valley. Two winding serpents of determined men; ten battalions in tall black bearskins, white facings and dark-blue pantaloons--that was their dress at Waterloo--with Friant and Morand, Petit, whom Napoleon had kissed at Fontainebleau, Poret de Morvan, and old Cambronne. The _élite_ of the French army, the Grenadiers and Chasseurs of the Old and Middle Guard, marching sternly to victory or death. Marcognet, Alix, and Donzelot, with their remnants, against our reeling left; Reille, Foy, and Jérôme renewing on Hougoumont--cavalry in the gaps and spaces--a simultaneous, mighty LAST ATTACK! The yet unbroken Imperial Guard set their faces towards the spot where Maitland’s, Adams’ and Byng’s redcoats looked to their priming and closed their ranks: had Napoleon hurled them against the cross road behind La Haye Sainte, the story of Waterloo had been written differently. He missed his chance; he threw away his final hope. The greatest of his many mistakes was committed, and, handing over the leadership to Ney, he remained on a hillock above the farm, and watched the downfall of France and the death-blow of his empire! For the last time in this world their Emperor addressed them, pointing towards the heights with a gesture all could understand. “_Déployez les aigles. En avant! Vive l’Empereur!_” and with a great shout they quickened their pace, passing proudly, unheeding, over the bodies of those comrades who had gone before.