He tore off General Milhaud's epaulettes, which he flung into Foy's face.

He glared about him wildly, like a demon, and shouted hoarsely for the Duke of Illyria.

"He is wounded, Sire," said General Foy, wiping a tear from his eye, which was blackened by the force of the blow; "he was wounded an hour since in a duel, Sire, by a young English prisoner, Monsieur de Fogarty." "Wounded! a marshal of France wounded! Where is the Englishman?
Bring him out, and let a file of grenadiers--" "Sire!" interposed Eugene.
"Let him be shot!" shrieked the Emperor, shaking his spyglass at me with the fury of a fiend.
This was too much.

"Here goes!" said I, and rode slap at him.
There was a shriek of terror from the whole of the French army, and I should think at least forty thousand guns were levelled at me in an instant.

But as the muskets were not loaded, and the cannon had only wadding in them, these facts, I presume, saved the life of Phil Fogarty from this discharge.
Knowing my horse, I put him at the Emperor's head, and Bugaboo went at it like a shot.