He cursed himself for the falsehoods by which he had
deceived these brave men, for whose death he would be accountable.
Enough blood had flowed; he must save those who remained.
"Cease firing, my friends," he commanded; "retreat!"
They obeyed--he could see them scatter in every direction.
He too could flee; was he not mounted upon a gallant steed which would
bear him beyond the reach of the enemy?
But he had sworn that he would not survive defeat. Maddened with
remorse, despair, sorrow, and impotent rage, he saw no refuge save in
death.
He had only to wait for it; it was fast approaching; he preferred to
rush to meet it. Gathering up the reins, he dashed the rowels in his
steed and, alone, charged upon the enemy.
The shock was rude, the ranks opened, there was a moment of confusion.
But Lacheneur's horse, its chest cut open by the bayonets, reared, beat
the air with his hoofs, then fell backward, burying his rider beneath
him.
And the soldiers marched on, not suspecting that beneath the body of the
horse the brave rider was struggling to free himself.
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