They were not going to make any response apparently to the fire of the Fifth-of-the-Line.

Were they, indeed, to come to death's grapple at the bayonet's point with that irresistible Guard?
But no, there was a sudden movement, a change in the approaching ranks.
"Secure arms," cried old Cambronne, and with their guns reversed and comfortably tucked under their arms, the old soldiers came on.
The meaning was plain, the battle was to be a moral one, evidently! "Aim!" cried the sharp voice of the Marquis, and the guns came up to the shoulders of the long line, as they bent their heads and mechanically squinted along the barrels.
The moment had come! Out in the front had ridden the familiar figure on the white horse.

They could see the details of his person now.

His pale face was flushed under the familiar black, three-cornered cocked hat with its tricolor cockade, his gray redingote was buttoned across his breast.
He suddenly raised his hand.

The drums stopped beating, the moving grenadiers halted.