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Doyle, Arthur Conan, Sir, 1859-1930

"Uncle Bernac A Memory of the Empire"


'Admiral Bruix!'
I do not know if that voice thrilled through every one as it did through
me. Never had I heard anything more harsh, more menacing, more
sinister. From under his puckered brows his light-blue eyes glanced
swiftly round with a sweep like a sabre.
'I am here, Sire!' A dark, grizzled, middle-aged man, in a naval
uniform, had advanced from the throng. Napoleon took three quick little
steps towards him in so menacing a fashion, that I saw the
weather-stained cheeks of the sailor turn a shade paler, and he gave a
helpless glance round him, as if for assistance.
'How comes it, Admiral Bruix,' cried the Emperor, in the same terrible
rasping voice, 'that you did not obey my commands last night?'
'I could see that a westerly gale was coming up, Sire. I knew that--,'
he could hardly speak for his agitation, 'I knew that if the ships went
out with this lee shore--'
'What right have you to judge, sir?' cried the Emperor, in a cold fury
of indignation. 'Do you conceive that your judgment is to be placed
against mine?'
'In matters of navigation, Sire.


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