And yet, fierce and masterful as these men were, having, as Auguereau boasted, fear neither of God nor of the devil, there was something which thrilled or cowed them in the pale smile or black frown of the little man who ruled them.  For, as I watched them, there suddenly came over the assembly a start and hush such as you see in a boys’ school when the master enters unexpectedly, and there near the open doors of his headquarters stood the master himself.  Even without that sudden silence, and the scramble to their feet of those upon the benches, I felt that I should have known instantly that he was present.  There was a pale luminosity about his ivory face which drew the eye towards it, and though his dress might be the plainest of a hundred, his appearance would be the first which one would notice.  There he was, with his little plump, heavy-shouldered figure, his green coat with the red collar and cuffs, his white, well-formed legs, his sword with the gilt hilt and the tortoise-shell scabbard.  His head was uncovered, showing his thin hair of a ruddy chestnut colour.  Under one arm was the flat cocked hat with the twopenny tricolour rosette, which was already reproduced in his pictures.  In his right hand he held a little riding switch with a metal head.  He walked slowly forward, his face immutable, his eyes fixed steadily before him, measured, inexorable, the very personification of Destiny.

‘Admiral Bruix!’

I do not know if that voice thrilled through every one as it did through me.  Never had I heard anything more harsh, more menacing, more sinister.  From under his puckered brows his light-blue eyes glanced swiftly round with a sweep like a sabre.

‘I am here, Sire!’ A dark, grizzled, middle-aged man, in a naval uniform, had advanced from the throng.  Napoleon took three quick little steps towards him in so menacing a fashion, that I saw the weather-stained cheeks of the sailor turn a shade paler, and he gave a helpless glance round him, as if for assistance.

‘How comes it, Admiral Bruix,’ cried the Emperor, in the same terrible rasping voice, ‘that you did not obey my commands last night?’

‘I could see that a westerly gale was coming up, Sire.  I knew that—­,’ he could hardly speak for his agitation, ’I knew that if the ships went out with this lee shore—­’

‘What right have you to judge, sir?’ cried the Emperor, in a cold fury of indignation.  ’Do you conceive that your judgment is to be placed against mine?’

‘In matters of navigation, Sire.’

‘In no matters whatsoever.’

‘But the tempest, Sire!  Did it not prove me to be in the right?’

‘What!  You still dare to bandy words with me?’

‘When I have justice on my side.’

There was a hush amidst all the great audience; such a heavy silence as comes only when many are waiting, and all with bated breath.  The Emperor’s face was terrible.  His cheeks were of a greenish, livid tint, and there was a singular rotary movement of the muscles of his forehead.  It was the countenance of an epileptic.  He raised the whip to his shoulder, and took a step towards the admiral.