But he did not hear.  He heard naught save the voices in his own breast, to whose gloomy words the wails and groans of the wounded formed a horrible chorus.

Suddenly he rose slowly, and turning toward Marshal Bessieres, who, with his wounded arm in a sling, stood nearest to him, Napoleon pointed to the river.

“To Ebersdorf!” he said, in his firm, imperious voice.  “You will accompany me, marshal.  You too, gentlemen,” he added, turning to the captured Austrian General Weber, and the Russian General Czernitschef, who had arrived at Napoleon’s headquarters the day before the battle on a special mission from the Czar Alexander, and been a very inopportune witness of his defeat.

The two generals bowed silently and followed the emperor, who went hastily down to the shore.  A boat with four oarsmen lay waiting for him, and his two valets, Constant and Roustan, stood beside the skiff to help the emperor enter.

He thrust back their hands with a swift gesture of repulse, and stepped slowly and proudly down into the swaying, rocking boat which was to bear the Caesar and his first misfortune to his headquarters, Castle Ebersdorf.  He darted a long angry glance at the foaming waves roaring around the skiff, a glance before which the bravest of his marshals would have trembled, but which the insensible waters, tossing and surging below, swallowed as they had swallowed that day so many of his soldiers.  Then, sinking slowly down upon the seat which Roustan had prepared for him of cushions and coverlets, he again propped his arms on his knees, rested his face in his hands, and gazed into vacancy.  The companions whom he had ordered to attend him, and his two valets followed, and the boat put off from the shore, and danced, whirling hither and thither, over the foam-crested waves.

But amid the roar of the river, the plash of the dipping oars, was heard the piteous wailing of the wounded, the loud oaths and jeers of the soldiers who had rushed down to the shore, and, with clenched fists, hurled execrations after the emperor, accusing him, with angry scorn, of perfidy because he left them in this hour of misfortune.

Napoleon did not hear the infuriated shouts of his soldiery; he was listening to the tempest, the waves, and the menacing voices in his own breast.

Once only he raised himself from his bowed posture and again darted an angry glance at the foaming water as if he wished to lash the hated element with the look, as Xerxes had done with iron chains.

“The Danube, with its furious surges, and the storm with its mad power, have conquered me,” he cried in a loud, angry voice.  “Ay, all Nature must rise in rebellion and wrath to wrest a victory from me.  Nature, not Archduke Charles, has vanquished me!”