Up they went at a charge, deployed in line of battle, and stopped the enemy’s advance. Meantime the mounted grenadiers dashed forward at a gallop and overthrew the Austrian cavalry.
Meanwhile the division which had escaped from the conflagration received fresh cartridges and reformed in line. But this movement had no other result than to prevent the retreat from becoming a rout.
It was two o’clock.
Bonaparte watched the battle, sitting on the bank of a ditch beside the highroad to Alessandria. He was alone. His left arm was slipped through his horse’s bridle; with the other he flicked the pebbles in the road with the tip of his riding-whip. Cannon-balls were plowing the earth about him. He seemed indifferent to this great drama on which hung all his hopes. Never had he played so desperate a game—six years of victory against the crown of France!
Suddenly he roused from his revery. Amid the dreadful roar of cannon and musketry his ear caught the hoof-beats of a galloping horse. He raised his head. A rider, dashing along at full speed, his horse covered with white froth, came from the direction of Novi. When he was within fifty feet, Bonaparte gave one cry:
“Roland!”
The latter dashed on, crying: “Desaix! Desaix! Desaix!”
Bonaparte opened his arms; Roland sprang from his horse, and flung himself upon the First Consul’s neck.
There was a double joy for Bonaparte in this arrival—that of again seeing a man whom he knew would be devoted to him unto death, and because of the news he brought.
“And Desaix?” he questioned.