shoulders to the tops of his long muddy boots. He was the postmaster of Burgos. He was looking earnestly down the road toward Valladolid; occasionally he turned and looked toward Vittoria, and then his eyes flashed as his rested upon gaze the little group of chasseurs and upon the bay charger with the imperial trappings. The day was cold and clear. It had been raining hard the night before, but it was freezing now, and a thin coat of ice was forming on the water in the deep ruts cut in the roads by the artillery and baggage trains that had passed over them.

The wind blew more sharply and the chasseurs drew nearer to the fire.

"It is true," said one, who showed from the manner in which he had been giving orders that he was in command of the little detachment, "it is true we are to have war with Austria. I had it from De Viry, who brought the dispatches from the War Minister in Paris to the Emperor at Astorga. Austria is arming; she thinks the present a good chance, since the Emperor and the Grand Army are off here in Spain, where it must be allowed we have our hands full."

"Well," cried another, whose bronzed countenance with its two ugly red scars showed that this was not his first campaign, "let us hope it may be so if it will take us out of here. Mon Dieu what a country! Nothing but mountains to climb and rivers to cross, and rain and mud always. And what a people! Their army is nothing—the Guard alone could thrash that; but every peasant is in arms, and they shoot out at you from behind their houses, they lie in wait for you. in the mountain passes, they lurk behind every rock. We are not fighting an army, but a nation in arms.”

So it was. Spain, having looked on while the victorious armies of France traversed Italy and Austria and Prussia and Poland, while the French eagles flew from Milan to Vienna and from Vienna to Berlin— Spain had now met, face to face, the man of Marengo and of Austerlitz, and Spain would not soon forget it.

What mattered it to the Spaniards if their government was imbecile and debased? it was their government; it was a Spanish government. What mattered it if their Prince of the Asturias, whom they admired and who, they knew, was held prisoner in France, was weak and corrupt? He was their Prince and he was a Spaniard. Prince Joseph Bonaparte, whom the French Emperor informed them he had chosen for their king, might be a very good man; they knew nothing about it; they did not want to know. The priests told them that a Frenchman was a devil in human form, and that whoever killed three of them would receive the reward of heaven without purgatory. Joseph Bonaparte was a Frenchman. That was enough for them. Had he been an angel they would have given him all the attributes of hell.

Therefore this proud nation—the national pride of Old Castile and Aragon leaping to its utmost height— rose as one man, drove King Joseph out of Madrid, and proclaimed war to the death against him, and against his brother, the great Emperor, who had commanded them to receive him.

But they reckoned not with whom they had to deal. They were proud, but not so proud as the man who had written, "I shall find the pillars of Hercules in Spain. I shall not find there the limits of my power."

They could fight, but not so well as the victor of Rivoli and Marengo and Austerlitz and Friedland. So he came, with his genius and his glory, his Army of the Rhine and his Old Guard. He beat them at Vittoria; he routed them at Burgos; he drove them from the pass of Somo Sierra; he wheeled his thundering cannon about their capital; and Madrid, like Cairo, Vienna and Berlin, was compelled to open her gates and bow before the conqueror.

Then the red-coated English, under Sir John Moore, came from Portugal, and the French Emperor set off promptly in pursuit of them, and pressed them hard through the steep defiles of the Guadarrama, and across the Seco, as far as Astorga. There he received the news that Austria was arming against him, and, leaving the pursuit to his Marshals Ney and Soult, he returned to Valladolid, where for five days he worked incessantly, giving his orders before setting out for France.

Such was the position of affairs on this January morning, 1809, and in the little group at the posthouse of Burgos each had his special role to play in the great drama of Empires.

"They say that General Moore and the English have escaped the Emperor," said one of the troopers, addressing the captain.

"Not yet," replied the captain. "De Viry tells me that Ney and Soult are to continue the pursuit, but the Emperor must return to France."

"Again, I say," cried the old chasseur, who had spoken before, "God grant we may all go with him. Give me a good fight on the plains of Germany, and no more chasing of these miserable banditti, who hide

among their mountains and shoot you in the back. If the Austrians want another Austerlitz, we'll give it to them. I shall be glad to see Vienna again. I was there in 1805, and I like the town."

At that moment the clatter of hoofs was heard upon the road in the direction of Valladolid, and the chasseurs ran to the front of the post-house, which had hidden their view in that direction, that they might see who was coming.

It was Watteville, one of the Emperor's aides-decamp, riding at a furious pace. He drew rein at the post-house door, and the captain of chasseurs approached him and saluted.

Captain Duval," said Watteville, "the Emperor will be here in less than a quarter of an hour; he does not stop, but pushes on to Vittoria. Be ready." With that he galloped on.

All was now movement and animation around the little post-house. The grooms quickly brought the horses out of their stables; Captain Duval inspected them to see that their portmanteaus contained linen maps, paper and telescopes, as the Emperor's orders required; the bay charger was led in front of the post-house door; the other horses were brought to the courtyard gate, and the chasseurs drew up in line beside them. Captain Duval was near the groom, who held the Emperor's horse; all was ready.

They did not have to wait long. Suddenly, around a bend in the road from Valladolid, came a company of horsemen. They rode at a tearing gallop, and their helmets with long horsehair crests, their busbys with waving plumes, and their glittering, gold-laced uniforms made a brilliant show. But they attracted little

attention from the group gathered about the posthouse door. All eyes were fixed upon him who rode at their head. All knew that short, square figure beneath the plain cocked hat with the small tricolored cockade; his gray greatcoat was buttoned closely over his breast; his riding boots with silver spurs were thickly splashed with mud; by his side was the sword. of Austerlitz; it was the Emperor Napoleon. His pale face was calm, but his brow was knit, his lips compressed, and his eyes flashed as he leaned forward, jerking impatiently at his bridle reins as if to quicken his already furious speed.

On arriving at the post-house the Emperor checked his horse so suddenly that the beast was thrown upon its haunches. He flung himself off, bringing his foot heavily to the ground. One of the grooms, who stood ready, led the horse quickly away; another brought up the bay charger. The Emperor seized the reins, sprang into the saddle and gave the highly mettled animal a sharp cut with his whip, which made him leap forward furiously.

"Vive 1'Empereur!" shouted the chasseurs. The postmaster stood in his doorway, with his red cloak wrapped about him, silently watching. The staff, having changed horses as rapidly as possible, rode hard after the Emperor; the chasseurs returned to their quarters to await orders from Marshal Lannes, who was in command at Valladolid, but the postmaster still stood, gazing intently down the road toward Vittoria after the great apparition which he, for the first time, had seen.