The cross of the Legion of Honor glittered on his breast, a shining mark at which to aim.
The flush on his ivory face died as quickly as it had come.

He was apparently as composed and as steady as if he had been cut out of granite.

But tiny beads of sweat bedewed his brow, shaded by that familiar cocked hat.

What would the next moment disclose?
Would he be a prisoner, the laughing stock, the jest of Europe?
Or would he lie dead in the road, a French bullet in his heart?
He had faced the guns of every people in Europe, but he had never faced French guns before.

Would any finger in that line press a trigger?
Only God knew, but the Emperor would soon find out.