To this ring of 300,000 fighters Napoleon could oppose scarcely half as many.  Yet the French fought on, if not for victory, yet for honour; and, under the lead of Prince Poniatowski, whose valour on the 16th had gained him the coveted rank of a Marshal of France, the Poles once more clutched desperately at the wraith of their national independence.  Napoleon took his stand with his staff on a hill behind Probstheyde near a half-ruined windmill, fit emblem of his fortunes; while, further south, the three allied monarchs watched from a higher eminence the vast horse-shoe of smoke slowly draw in towards the city.  In truth, this immense conflict baffles all description.  On the north-east, the Crown Prince of Sweden gradually drove his columns across the Parthe, while Bluecher hammered at the suburbs.

Near the village of Paunsdorf, the allies found a weak place in the defence, where Reynier’s Saxons showed signs of disaffection.  Some few went over to the Russians in the forenoon, and about 3 p.m. others marched over with loud hurrahs.  They did not exceed 3,000 men, with 19 cannon, but these pieces were at once effectively used against the French.  Napoleon hurried towards the spot with part of his Guards, who restored the fight on that side.  But it was only for a time.  The defence was everywhere overmatched.

Even the inspiration of his presence and the desperate efforts of Murat, Poniatowski, Victor, Macdonald, and thousands of nameless heroes, barely held off the masses of the allied Grand Army.  On the north and north-east, Marmont and Ney were equally overborne.[382] Worst of all, the supply of cannon balls was running low.  With pardonable exaggeration the Emperor afterwards wrote to Clarke:  “If I had then had 30,000 rounds, I should to-day be the master of the world.”

At nightfall, the chief returned weary and depressed to the windmill, and instructed Berthier to order the retreat.  Then, beside a watch-fire, he sank down on a bench into a deep slumber, while his generals looked on in mournful silence.  All around them there surged in the darkness the last cries of battle, the groans of the wounded, and the dull rumble of a retreating host.  After a quarter of an hour he awoke with a start and threw an astonished look on his staff; then, recollecting himself, he bade an officer repair to the King of Saxony and tell him the state of affairs.

Early next morning, he withdrew into Leipzig, and, after paying a brief visit to the King, rode away towards the western gate.  It was none too soon.  The conflux of his still mighty forces streaming in by three high roads, produced in all the streets of the town a crush which thickened every hour.  The Prussians and Swedes were breaking into the northern suburbs, while the white-coats drove in the defenders on the south.  Slowly and painfully the throng of fugitives struggled through the town towards the western gate.  On that side the confusion became