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.  Terror-stricken also was the whole Russian army.  Shaking with fear, they wavered at the advance of the dead, gave way suddenly in a panic, and finally fled in whatever direction their eyes happened to look.

The brigand Napoleonder sat on his horse, holding his sides with laughter, and shouted:  “Aha!  My old men are not to your taste!  I thought so!  This isn’t like playing knuckle-bones with children and old women!  Well, then, my honorable Messrs. Dead Men, I have never yet felt pity for any one, and you needn’t show mercy to my enemies.  Deal with them after your own fashion.”

“As long as it is so,” replied the corpse-soldiers, “we are your faithful servants always.”

Our men fled from Kulikova-field to Pultava-field; from Pultava-field to the famous still-water Don; and from the peaceful Don to the field of Borodino, under the very walls of Mother Moscow.  And as our men came to these fields, one after another, they turned their faces again and again toward Napoleonder, and fought him with such fierceness that the brigand himself was delighted with them “God save us!” he exclaimed, “what soldiers these Russians are!  I have not seen such men in any other country.”

But, in spite of the bravery of our troops, we were unable to stop Napoleonder’s march; because we had no word with which to meet his word.  In every battle we pound him, and drive him back, and get him in a slip-noose; but just as we are going to draw it tight and catch him, the filthy, idolatrous thief bethinks himself and shouts “Bonaparty!” Then the dead men crawl out of their graves in full uniform, set their teeth, fix their eyes upon their officers, and charge!  And where they pass the grass withers and the stones crack.  And our men are so terrified by these unclean bodies that they can’t fight against them at all.  As soon as they hear that accursed word “Bonaparty,” and see the big fur hats and the yellow faces of the dead men, they throw down their guns and rush into the woods to hide.

“Say what you will, Alexander Blagoslovenni,” they cry, “for corpses we are not prepared.”