It was arranged that Cambaceres’ division of six battalions and nine-and-twenty squadrons should execute a ricochet movement, supported by artillery in the intervals, and converging by different epaulements on the light infantry, that formed, as usual, the centre of the line.  It was by this famous manoeuvre that at Arcola, at Montenotte, at Friedland, and subsequently at Mazagran, Suwaroff, Prince Charles, and General Castanos were defeated with such victorious slaughter:  but it is a movement which, I need not tell every military man, requires the greatest delicacy of execution, and which, if it fails, plunges an army into confusion.

“Where is the Duke of Illyria?” Napoleon asked.  “At the head of his division, no doubt,” said Murat:  at which Eugene, giving me an arch look, put his hand to his nose, and caused me almost to fall off my horse with laughter.  Napoleon looked sternly at me; but at this moment the troops getting in motion, the celebrated manoeuvre began, and his Majesty’s attention was taken off from my impudence.

Milhaud’s Dragoons, their bands playing “Vive Henri Quatre,” their cuirasses gleaming in the sunshine, moved upon their own centre from the left flank in the most brilliant order, while the Carbineers of Foy, and the Grenadiers of the Guard under Drouet d’Erlon, executed a carambolade on the right, with the precision which became those veteran troops; but the Chasseurs of the young guard, marching by twos instead of threes, bore consequently upon the Bavarian Uhlans (an ill-disciplined and ill-affected body), and then, falling back in disorder, became entangled with the artillery and the left centre of the line, and in one instant thirty thousand men were in inextricable confusion.

“Clubbed, by Jabers!” roared out Lanty Clancy.  “I wish we could show ’em the Fighting Onety-oneth, Captain darling.”

“Silence, fellow!” I exclaimed.  I never saw the face of man express passion so vividly as now did the livid countenance of Napoleon.  He tore off General Milhaud’s epaulettes, which he flung into Foy’s face.  He glared about him wildly, like a demon, and shouted hoarsely for the Duke of Illyria.  “He is wounded, Sire,” said General Foy, wiping a tear from his eye, which was blackened by the force of the blow; “he was wounded an hour since in a duel, Sire, by a young English prisoner, Monsieur de Fogarty.”

“Wounded! a marshal of France wounded!  Where is the Englishman?  Bring him out, and let a file of grenadiers—­”

“Sire!” interposed Eugene.

“Let him be shot!” shrieked the Emperor, shaking his spyglass at me with the fury of a fiend.

This was too much.  “Here goes!” said I, and rode slap at him.

There was a shriek of terror from the whole of the French army, and I should think at least forty thousand guns were levelled at me in an instant.  But as the muskets were not loaded, and the cannon had only wadding in them, these facts, I presume, saved the life of Phil Fogarty from this discharge.