And now the wave of steel is surging up the incline: the gleam of shining metal pierces the distant haze, casques and lances glitter in the slowly sinking sun, whilst from billow to billow the echo brings to straining ears the triumphant cry "Vive l'Empereur!" Five minutes later the British artillery ranged along the crest has made a huge breach in that solid, moving mass of horses and of steel. Quickly the breach is repaired: the ranks close up again! This is a parade! a review! The eyes of France are upon her sons! and "Vive l'Empereur!" Still they come! Volley after volley from the British guns makes deadly havoc among those glistering ranks! But nevertheless they come! No halt save for the quick closing up into serried, orderly columns. And then on with the advance!--like the surging up of a tidal wave against the cliffs--on with the advance! up the slopes toward the crest where those who are in the front ranks are mowed down by the British guns--their places taken by others from the rear--those others mowed down again, and again replaced--falling in their hundreds as they reach the crest, like the surf that shivers and dies as it strikes against the cliffs. Ney's horse is killed under him--the fifth to-day--but he quickly extricates himself from saddle and stirrups and continues on his way--on foot, sword in hand--the sword that conquered at Austerlitz, at Eylau and at Moskowa. Round him the grenadiers of the Old Guard--they with the fur bonnets and the grizzled moustaches--tighten up their ranks. They advance behind the cavalry! and after every volley from the British guns they shout loudly: "Vive l'Empereur!" And anon the tidal wave--despite the ebb, despite the constant breaking of its surf--has by sheer force of weight hurled itself upon the crest of the plateau. The Brunswickers on the left are scattered. Cleeves and Lloyd have been forced to abandon their guns: the British artillery is silenced and the chasseurs of Michel hold the extreme edge of the upland, and turn a deadly fusillade upon Colin Halkett's brigade already attacked by Milhaud and his guards and now severely shaken. "See the English General!" cries Duchaud to his cuirassiers, "he is between two fires. He cannot escape." No! he cannot but he seizes the colours of the 33rd whose young lieutenant has just fallen, and who threaten to yield under the devastating cross-fire: he brandishes the tattered colours, high up above his head--as high as he can hold them--he calls to his men to rally, and then falls grievously wounded. But his guards have rallied. They stand firm now, and Duchaud, chewing his grey moustache, murmurs his appreciation of so gallant a foe. "That side will win," he mutters, "who can best keep on killing." IV "Up, guards, and at them!" Maitland's brigade of guards had been crouching in the corn--crouching--waiting for the order to charge--red-coated lions in the ripening corn--ready to spring at the word.