The latter wasted no time in argument. He turned to the aide-de-camp. "Matthews, see this man shot." Then, without another word, he rode away, satisfied that his order would be carried out. As St. Just learned afterwards, he was the Duke of Wellington.
St. Just's position was desperate indeed; for all that, he did not lose his presence of mind. If he should go quietly, he would infallibly be shot. He resolved to make a dash for life; should he fail, the result would be the same as if he had not tried; he would be shot—in the back instead of in the face—a distinction without a difference. Suddenly the thought flashed on him of how Tremeau had acted in somewhat similar circumstances—before his house in Sussex. St. Just was alone before the officer, his captors having fallen back some paces, in obedience to the orders of the Duke. Instantly his resolution was taken. Before any one could dream of his intention, he had dashed upon the officer, hurled him from his horse and vaulted into the vacant saddle. Then, wheeling the horse round, he set off at a gallop, shouting "Vive L'Empereur."
The whole affair had been so sudden, that his captors were dumfounded with astonishment, and, for the moment, were at a loss how to act.
The officer sprang to his feet and shouted, "Fire on him!"
But, by this time, the fugitive had got many yards away. He heard the order given and instantly bent low in his saddle. Crack, crack, crack, went three musket shots. He could feel the bullets whistle past him. Before they could load again, he was out of range.
He rode for his life, tearing down the road at topmost speed. A few stragglers—English—blocked his path.
"Despatches from the Duke!" he shouted. "Make way!"
They did; his English words had saved him. On he flew. Presently he became conscious of a horse's hoofs striking the ground rapidly behind him. He was convinced he was being pursued. It was the officer who had been charged to see him shot. He had caught a Dragoon's stray horse, and was thundering after the runaway. St. Just could feel that his pursuer was gaining on him. Just when life and liberty seemed his, was he to be deprived of both?
But now a greater danger than the officer in his wake assailed him. In a field a few yards from the road was a man in the dreaded scarlet uniform. The officer shouted to him to shoot St. Just. The English soldier leveled his musket, taking a steady aim, his object plainly being to fire point blank, just when St. Just was passing. The Frenchman saw his peril and suddenly ducked his head.
Bang! he felt a sudden, scorching smart and a bullet cut a channel across his forehead; then the blood began to trickle down his face.