In and out between the trees they fought with desperation, dyeing the ground crimson with their blood. More of the victorious Belgians came up, and the glade rang with oaths and shrieks, the clash of arms and the crack of pistol shots; and mingled with them, the cries of the wounded and the dying.
St. Just's horse was killed under him and, in falling, brought his rider to the ground, entangling his leg in the stirrup, so that he could not rise. Thus he was taken prisoner. His captors hurried him through the wood till they came to the highway leading from Brussels to Quatre Bras.
At this point, a mounted general officer with a prominent Roman nose, and dressed in a plain uniform and wearing a cocked hat devoid of plumes, confronted them. He was accompanied by an aide-de-camp.
"Who are you, Sir?" he asked sharply, addressing the prisoner.
St. Just drew himself up and saluted.
"Colonel St. Just," he answered, "of the Emperor's Imperial Guard."
"Hah!" said the aide-de-camp, and, leaning forward, he spoke in a low tone to his companion, who immediately called out to the soldiers, "Fall back there!" Then to St. Just, "A word with you, Sir. Now, Sir, I know who you are, and all about you. I also know your wife. Now, tell me what are Buonaparte's plans, or—" and he paused ominously.
"Or what?" St. Just asked promptly.
"I will have you shot for a spy. You are well known for one."
"I refuse to say a word," was the unflinching answer, and he looked the general officer boldly in the face.