All at once, on the other side of a ploughed field on his right, he espied a troop of the Emperor's Polish Lancers. They were sabering some Belgian infantry. He turned into the field and crossed it at a gallop. His strength was failing him, for the blood was pouring from his wound. A few more strides and he had gained his comrades. He was saved! He swayed unsteadily in his saddle, then rolled off and fell unconscious at their feet.
When he awoke to consciousness, he found himself in a clean white bed with a French officer by his side. His comrade also had been wounded, for his head was swathed in a bloodstained cloth.
"Where am I?" St. Just asked in a weak voice, and looking, bewildered, first into the other's face and then around the room.
"At La Belle Alliance, a farm house," was the reply; continuing, "The decisive battle will be fought to-morrow. Hark! what is that? A carriage!"
He went to the window and looked out. "'Tis the Emperor's carriage; and he is getting out."
In less than a minute, a staff officer entered the room, followed immediately by Napoleon.
At the sight of him, St. Just first raised himself to a sitting posture on the bed, then staggered to his feet and saluted. He felt weak and dizzy.
The Emperor, who was now paler than his wont, and looked ill and worried, spoke to him kindly, making a few inquiries about his wound and how he got it. Then he repeated what the officer had said, that the decisive battle would be fought on the morrow, and inquired whether St. Just would be able to take part in it.
To this St. Just replied that nothing should prevent him; that his wound was a mere scratch, and that he was merely a little weak, and that a night's rest would put him on his feet.
The Emperor moved to the window and gazed out. "To-morrow," he muttered musingly, "to-morrow."