Down below behind the farm buildings of La Haye Sainte two battalions of chasseurs of the Old Guard had made a stand around a tattered bit of tricolour and the bronze eagle--symbol of so much decadent grandeur and of such undying glory. "A moi chasseurs," brave Général Pelet had cried. "Let us save the eagle or die beneath its wing." And those who heard this last call of despair stopped in their headlong flight; they forged a way for themselves through the mass of running horses and men, they rallied to their flag, and with their tirailleurs--kneeling on one knee--ranged in a circle round them, they now formed a living bulwark for their eagle, of dauntless breasts and bristling bayonets. And upon this mass of desperate men, the small body of raw Dutch and Belgian and German troops now hurled themselves with wild huzzas and blind impetuousness. Against this mass of heroes and of conquerors in a dozen victorious campaigns--men who had no longer anything to lose but life, and to whom life meant less than nothing now--against them a handful of half-trained recruits, drunk with the cry of "Victory" which drowned the roar of the cannon and the clash of sabres, drunk with the vision of glory which awaited them if that defiant eagle were brought to earth by them! And as Bobby staggered to his feet he already saw the impending catastrophe--one of the many on this day of cumulative disasters. He saw the Dutch and the Belgians and the Brunswickers rush wildly to the charge--young men--enthusiasts--brave--but men whose ranks had twice been broken to-day--who twice had rallied to their colours and then had broken again--men who were exhausted--men who were none too ably led--men in fact--and there were many French royalists among their officers--who had not the physical power of endurance which had enabled the British to astonish the world to-day. Bobby could see amongst them the Brunswickers and their black coats--he would have known them amongst millions of men. The full brilliance of the evening glow was upon them--on their black coats and the silver galoons and tassels; two of their officers had made a brave show in Brussels three days--or was it a hundred years?--ago at the Duchess of Richmond's ball. Bobby remembered them so well, for one of these two officers was Maurice de St. Genis. Oh! how Crystal would love to see him now--even though her dear heart would be torn with anxiety for him--for he was fighting bravely, bravely and desperately as every one had fought to-day, as these chasseurs of the Old Guard--just the few of them that remained--were fighting still even at this hour round that tattered flag and that bronze eagle, and with the cry of "Vive l'Empereur!" dying upon their lips.