Folk-Tales of Napoleon. Honore de Balzac

field-marshals, and finally drew near to Napoleonder himself.

      "Your time has come!" they cry to him. "Surrender!"

      But the villain sits there on his horse, rolling his goggle-eyes like an owl, and grinning.

      "Wait a minute," he says coolly. "Don't be in too big a hurry. A tale is short in telling, but the deed is long a-doing."

      Then he pronounces his conjuring-word, "Bonaparty" – six hundred and sixty-six, the number of the Beast.

      Instantly there is a great rushing sound, and the earth is shaken as if by an earthquake. Our soldiers look – and drop their hands. In all parts of the field appear threatening battalions, with bayonets shining in the sun, torn flags waving over terrible hats of fur, and tramp! tramp! tramp! on come the thousands of phantom men, with faces yellow as camomile, and empty holes under their bushy eyebrows.

      Alexander, the Blessed Tsar, was stricken with terror. Terror-stricken were all his generals and field-marshals. Terror-stricken also was the whole Russian army. Shaking with fear, they wavered at the advance of the dead, gave way suddenly in a panic, and finally fled in whatever direction their eyes happened to look.