One by one they shot or cut down all of Napoleonder's
field-marshals, and finally drew near to Napoleonder himself.
"Your time has come!" they cry to him. "Surrender!"
But the villain sits there on his horse, rolling his goggle-eyes like an
owl, and grinning.
"Wait a minute," he says coolly. "Don't be in too big a hurry. A tale is
short in telling, but the deed is long a-doing."
Then he pronounces his conjuring-word, "Bonaparty"--six hundred and
sixty-six, the number of the Beast.
Instantly there is a great rushing sound, and the earth is shaken as if
by an earthquake. Our soldiers look--and drop their hands. In all parts
of the field appear threatening battalions, with bayonets shining in the
sun, torn flags waving over terrible hats of fur, and tramp! tramp!
tramp! on come the thousands of phantom men, with faces yellow as
camomile, and empty holes under their bushy eyebrows.
Alexander, the Blessed Tsar, was stricken with terror. Terror-stricken
were all his generals and field-marshals.
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