The exhausted English had halted at La Belle Alliance. The Prussians came thundering on, and the two victors, Wellington and Blücher, embraced. Each called the other the winner of the day. Justly so--for each _was_ the winner. To success both had been necessary. The Prussians had made a most fatiguing march in the morning, and had fought with desperation for many hours, but they alone had strength left for the pursuit. Wellington’s troops fell down among the dying and the dead, to rest and sleep. But not until they had cheered the Prussians passing by. “Hip, hip, hurrah!” shout the English, while the bands play. The Prussians go by, singing Luther’s hymn, “Now praise we all our God.” And then these devout Christians hot-foot upon the track of other Christians, hurry on to a moonlight hunt--vast, terrible, murderous. These Prussians remember the pursuit after Jena; yes, and the pursuit after Austerlitz; yes, and the long years of French military occupation of the Fatherland. And now it is their turn. “As long as man and horse can go--push the pursuit!” cried Blücher. Not a great many Prussians are needed. A few cannon to make a noise, a few bugles to sound the charge, a few drums to send terror ahead--these, with about 4,500 troops, will be quite sufficient to chase Napoleon’s army like a flock of sheep. Forty thousand Frenchmen, unwounded, as brave a lot of men as ever stepped into line, are now so crushed by unexpected disaster, so filled with the terror of sheer panic, that no human power can check their stampede. Ney has tried it, vainly. Napoleon has tried it, vainly. They abandon the artillery, they throw away their guns, they cast off their accouterments, intent only on running for dear life. They cut through the fields, they fight for passage on the road, they murder one another in their frantic efforts to get on. The Prussians chase them, cut them down, ride over them--the roads, the fields, the woods are strewn with slaughtered Frenchmen. If any stand is made and a few of the firmer rally, the first blare of Prussian trumpets sets them running again. The 4,500 Prussians dwindle, as the chase lengthens, until scarcely a thousand pursue. But the French have lost their senses. The mere blare of a Prussian bugle throws them into agonies of fright. One drummer-boy, galloping on horseback, a dozen cavalrymen to yell the Prussian “Hourra!” are enough to keep the stampede going.