In that supreme moment the whole past was revealed to him as by a flash of lightning. He read and judged his own heart. Hatred had led him to crime. He loathed himself for the humiliation which he had imposed upon his daughter. He cursed himself for the falsehoods by which he had deceived these brave men, for whose death he would be accountable.
Enough blood had flowed; he must save those who remained.
“Cease firing, my friends,” he commanded; “retreat!”
They obeyed—he could see them scatter in every direction.
He too could flee; was he not mounted upon a gallant steed which would bear him beyond the reach of the enemy?
But he had sworn that he would not survive defeat. Maddened with remorse, despair, sorrow, and impotent rage, he saw no refuge save in death.
He had only to wait for it; it was fast approaching; he preferred to rush to meet it. Gathering up the reins, he dashed the rowels in his steed and, alone, charged upon the enemy.
The shock was rude, the ranks opened, there was a moment of confusion.
But Lacheneur’s horse, its chest cut open by the bayonets, reared, beat the air with his hoofs, then fell backward, burying his rider beneath him.
And the soldiers marched on, not suspecting that beneath the body of the horse the brave rider was struggling to free himself.