“You 're losing everything, Dalton,” said Walstein. “See, there go the 'Kaiser Jagers,' with their bugles, the finest in the service; and yonder are the Lichtenstein 'Light Horse,' mounted on thorough-bred cattle; and there, to the left, those savage-looking fellows with long beards, they are the 'Croat Grenadiers.' But here comes the Emperor!” And, as he spoke, one deafening cheer burst forth along the line, and was echoed back from the walls of Vienna; while every band struck up the national hymn of Austria, and the proud notes of “God preserve the Emperor!” floated through the air. A brilliant staff of generals of every arm of the service accompanied “the Kaiser;” and Walstein ran quickly over the names of these, many of whom were among the first nobility of the Empire. Some were the war-worn veterans of the great campaigns; some the young hopes of Austrian chivalry; but, conspicuous above all, was a figure whose stature, as well as the singularity of his uniform, attracted Frank's notice. He was a very tall old man, dressed in a uniform of purple velvet slashed with gold, and actually covered with the crosses and decorations of various orders. His cap was a tall chako of red-brown fur, from which a long, straight scarlet plume floated, and beneath which his gray hair was fastened in a queue, that hung half-way down his back. Yellow buskins ornamented with massive gold spurs completed a costume which seemed almost a compromise between the present and some bygone age. The figure of the wearer, too, suited well this impression. There was a stern rigidity of look as he sat still and motionless in his saddle, which relaxed into the polished urbanity of an old courtier as often as the Emperor addressed him. When bowing to the mane of his charger, he seemed the very type of courtesy; while, as he retired his horse, there was all the address and ease of a practised rider. “There, to the left of Walmoden, on the powerful black horse, do you see that handsome old man in the purple tunic?” said Waldstein. “I have been watching him for several minutes back,” replied Frank. “What a singular uniform!” “Yes. It was the dress of the Artillery of the Imperial Guard in the days of Wagram and Lobau; and he is permitted to retain it, by a special leave of the Emperor, a favor he only avails himself of on occasions like the present.” “What a mass of orders he wears!” “He has all that the Empire can bestow, from the 'Iron Cross' to the 'Maria Teresa.' He has the 'Legion of Honor,' too, sent him by Napoleon himself! It was that officer who at Elchingen rode up to the head of a French column, and told them that the wagons they were pursuing were the 'ammunition of the rear-guard!' 'If you advance,' said he, 'we 'll fire them, and blow you and ourselves to atoms!' The coolness and heroism of the daring were well acknowledged by a brave enemy. The French halted, and our train proceeded on its way. Mayhap you have heard the anecdote before?”