right. The woods seemed to open, and the banners of Blücher shot up in
the horizon. Grouchy was _not_ on his rear or flank! Napoleon saw at a
glance that it was then or never. His sun of Austerlitz hung low in
the west. The British centre must be broken, or the empire which he
had builded with his genius must pass away like a phantom. He called
out four battalions of the Middle and six of the Old Guard. In the
last fifteen years that Guard had been thrown a hundred times on the
enemies of France, and never yet repulsed. It deemed itself
invincible.

At seven o'clock, just as the June sun was sinking to the horizon, the
bugles sounded and the finest body of horsemen in Europe started to
its doom on the squares of Wellington. The grim horsemen rode to their
fate like heroes. The charge rolled on like an avalanche. It plunged
into the sunken road of O'Hain. It seemed to roll over. It rose from
the low grounds and broke on the British squares. They reeled under
the shock, then reformed and stood fast. Around and around those
immovable lines the soldiers of the Empire beat and beat in vain. It
was the war of races at its climax. It was the final death-grip of the
Gaul and the Teuton. The Old Guard recoiled. The wild cry of "_La
Garde recule_" was heard above the roar of battle. The crisis of the
Modern Era broke in blood and smoke, and the past was suddenly
victorious. The Guard was broken into flying squadrons. Ruin came with
the counter charge of the British. Ney, glorious in his despair,
sought to stay the tide. For an hour longer he was a spectacle to gods
and men. Five horses had been killed under him. He was on foot. He was
hatless. He clutched the hilt of a broken sword. He was covered with
dust and blood. But his grim face was set against the victorious
enemy in the hopeless and heroic struggle to rally his shattered
columns.