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. He was riding his famous white Arab, and turned quite
pale as I came up and went over the horse and the Emperor, scarcely
brushing the cockade which he wore.
"Bravo!" said Murat, bursting into enthusiasm at the leap.
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