But the Emperor had raised his arm to strike the enemy one final blow and he could not stay his hand. Even had he tried to recall Ney, D’Erlon, Reillé, it is doubtful whether the situation would have been improved. There was so much confusion, so many shattered commands, that an orderly retreat had become impossible. Encouraged by the report that Grouchy had come, the charging columns shouted “_Vive l’Empereur!_” and passed on. Freeing himself from the fifth horse which had been shot under him that day, the dauntless Ney went forward on foot, sword in hand. Losing terribly at every step, the French advanced up the slope. They took some batteries, they almost gained the Crest; but suddenly Maitland’s Guards, 2,000 strong, sprang up out of the wheat where they had been lying concealed, and poured a deadly volley into the French. Why was there no officer with presence of mind enough to cry then, “_Give them the bayonet_”? That was the one hope of the French. Instead of doing this, the officers tried to place the men in line so as to exchange volleys with the enemy. Fatal mistake. Wellington, noting the confusion and the hesitation, took advantage of it like a good soldier. “Up, Guards, and at ’em!” cried the Duke. “Forward, boys, now is your time!” cried Colonel Saltoun. The French, fighting frantically, were beaten back to the orchard of Hougoumont. Here a fresh battalion (4th Chasseurs) came to the relief of the retreating French, and the English returned rapidly to their own lines. Once more the Old Guard moves up the muddy slope, under the tremendous cannonade of the English guns. As they cross the Ohain road, an English brigade opens four lines of fire upon their flank; Maitland’s Guards and Halkett’s brigade oppose them in front; and a Hanoverian brigade, coming from the hedges of Hougoumont, fire upon them from the rear. The finishing blow is Colborn’s charge with fixed bayonets. “The guard gives way!” rings over the battlefield--a wail of despair, of terror. “Treachery!” is the cry throughout the field. Now is the time to make an end of this panic-stricken army, and Wellington, spurring to the crest, waves his hat--the signal for an advance all along the line. As night closes in, the English army, 40,000 strong, rush down the bloody, corpse-strewn slope, trampling the wounded and the dead, crying, “No Quarter!” The drum, the bugle, the bagpipe quicken the march of the English and the flight of the French. Making no stand at La Haye-Sainte, none at Hougoumont, none anywhere, the French army, already honeycombed with suspicion, dissolves in terror. Never had so strong a war-weapon shown itself so brittle. Napoleon was at La Haye-Sainte, forming another column of attack which he meant to lead in person, when he looked up and saw the Old Guard falter and stop.