Bobby had drawn rein on the edge of the wood to give his horse a rest, and for a while he watched that running stream, longing to shout to them to turn back--there was no occasion to run--to see what had been done, to take a share in that glorious, final charge for victory. But his throat was too parched for a shout, and as he watched, he saw in among a knot of mounted men--fugitives like the others, pale of face, anxious of mien and with that intent look which men have when life is precious and has got to be saved--he saw a man in the same uniform that St. Genis wore--a Brunswicker in black coat and silver galoons--who stared at him, persistently and strangely, as he rode by. The face though much altered by three days' growth of beard, and by the set of the shako worn right down to the brows, was nevertheless a familiar one. Bobby--stupefied, deprived for the moment of thinking powers, through sheer exhaustion and burning pain--taxed his weary brain in vain to understand the look of recognition which the man in the black uniform cast upon him as he passed. Until a lightly spoken: "Hullo, my dear Clyffurde!" uttered gaily as the rider drew near to the edge of the road, brought the name of "Victor de Marmont!" to Bobby's quivering lips. And just for the space of sixty seconds Fate rubbed her gaunt hands complacently together, seeing that she had brought these three men together--here on this spot--three men who loved the same woman, each with the utmost ardour and passion at his command--each even at this very moment striving to win her and to work for her happiness. Behind them in the plains of Waterloo the cannon still was roaring: de Marmont was on his way to redeem the fallen fortunes of the hero whom he worshipped and to win imperial regard, imperial favours, fortune and glory wherewith to conquer a girl's obstinacy. St. Genis--pale and unconscious--seemed even in his unconsciousness to defy the power of any rival by the might of early love, of old associations, of similarity of caste and of political ideals. He had fought for the cause which she and he had both equally at heart and by his very helplessness now he seemed to prove that he could do no more than he had done and that he had the right to claim the solace and comfort which her girlish lips and her girlish love had promised him long ago. Whilst Bobby had nothing to promise and nothing to give save devotion--his hope, his desire and his love were bounded by her happiness. And since her happiness lay in the life of the man whom he had dragged out of the jaws of Death, what greater proof could he give of his love than to lay down his life for him and for her? De Marmont's keen eyes took in the situation at a glance: he threw a quick look of savage hatred on St. Genis and cast one of contemptuous pity on Clyffurde. Then with a shrug of the shoulders and a light, triumphant laugh, he set spurs to his horse and rode swiftly away.