The sergeant's brain was going round like a top.

It was not he that challenged after all.
"Soldier of the Old Guard," cried Valmond, in a clear, ringing voice, "how far is it to Friedland ?" Like a machine the veteran's hand again went up to his cap, and he answered: "To Friedland--the width of a ditch!" His voice shook as he said it, and the world to him was all a muddle then; for Napoleon the Great had asked a private this question after that battle on the Alle, when Berningsen, the Russian, threw away an army to the master strategist.
The private had answered the question in the words of Sergeant Lagroin.
It was a saying long afterwards among the Old Guard, though it may not be found in the usual histories of that time, where every battalion, almost every company, had a watchword, which passed to make room for others, as victory followed victory.
"Soldier of the Old Guard," said Valmond again, "how came you by those scars upon your forehead ?" "I was a drummer at Auerstadt, a corporal at Austerlitz, a sergeant at Waterloo," rolled back the reply, in a high, quavering voice, as memories of great events blew in upon the ancient fires of his spirit.
"Ah!" answered Valmond, nodding eagerly; "with Davoust at Auerstadt--thirty against sixty thousand men.

At eight o'clock, all fog and mist, as you marched up the defile towards the Sonnenberg hills, the brave Gudin and his division feeling their way to Blucher.

Comrade, how still you stepped, your bayonet thrust out before you, clearing the mists, your eyes straining, your teeth set, ready to thrust.

All at once a quick-moving mass sprang out of the haze, and upon you, with hardly a sound of warning; and an army of hussars launched themselves at your bayonets! You bent that wall back like a piece of steel, and broke it.
Comrade, that was the beginning, in the mist of morning.