When the relics of the cuirassiers withdrew, the French cannonade opened once more furiously all along the line; and the English were commanded to lie flat on the ground for some space, in order to diminish its effects.  Lord Wellington had by this time lost 10,000, Buonaparte at least 15,000 men.  It was now half-past six o’clock.  The heads of Prussian columns began to be discerned among the woods to the right of the French.  It was obvious, that unless a last and decisive onset should drive Wellington from the post which he had continued to hold during near seven hours of unintermitting battle, his allies would come fully into the field, and give him a vast superiority of numbers wherewith to close the work of the day.  Napoleon prepared, therefore, for his final struggle.  Hitherto he had kept his guard, the flower of his fine army, out of the fray.  He now formed them into two columns,—­desired them to charge boldly, for that the Prussians, whom they saw in the wood, were flying before Grouchy—­and they doubted not that the Emperor was about to charge in person at their head.  He, however, looked on, as they put themselves in motion, and committed them to the guidance of Ney, “the bravest of the brave,” whose consciousness of recent treason must have prepared him, even had his temper been less gallant, to set all upon the cast.  Four battalions of the Old Guard only remained as a reserve; and were formed in squares to protect the march of the columns.

The English front by this time presented not a convex line, but a concave, either wing having gradually advanced a little in consequence of the repeated repulses of the enemy.  They were now formed in an unbroken array, four deep, and poured on the approaching columns (each man firing as often as he could reload) a shower which never intermitted.  The wings kept moving on all the while; and when the heads of the French columns approached, they were exposed to such a storm of musketry in front and on either flank, that they in vain endeavoured to deploy into line for the attack.  They stopped to make this attempt, reeled, lost order, and fled at last in one mass of confusion.

The Duke of Wellington now dismounted, placed himself at the head of his line, and led them, no longer held to defence, against the four battalions of the Old Guard—­the only unbroken troops remaining—­behind whom Ney was striving to rally his fugitives.

The Marshal, at Wellington’s approach, took post once more in the van, sword in hand, and on foot.  But nothing could withstand the impetuous assault of the victorious British.  The Old Guard also were shaken.  Napoleon had hitherto maintained his usual serenity of aspect on the heights of La Belle Alliance.  He watched the English onset with his spy-glass—­became suddenly pale as death—­exclaimed, “They are mingled together—­all is lost for the present,” and rode off the field, never stopping for a moment until he reached Charleroi.