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I saw him at the head of the army of Italy. I saw him crossing
the bridge of Lodi with the tricolor in his hand. I saw him in Egypt in
the shadows of the Pyramids. I saw him conquer the Alps and mingle the
eagles of France with the eagles of the crags. I saw him at Marengo, at
Ulm and Austerlitz. I saw him in Russia, where the infantry of the snow
and the cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions like winter's
withered leaves. I saw him at Leipsic in defeat and disaster, driven by
a million bayonets back upon Paris--clutched like a wild beast--banished
to Elba. I saw him escape and retake an empire by the force of his
genius. I saw him upon the frightful field of Waterloo, where Chance and
Fate combined to wreck the fortunes of their former king. And I saw him
at St. Helena, with his hands crossed behind him, gazing out upon the
sad and solemn sea.
I thought of the orphans and widows he had made, of the tears that had
been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him,
pushed from his heart by the cold hand of ambition.


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