It is Napoleon.

White it gleams against the dark stone of the old hall.

At a nod the soldiers face about, and---- "_Vive l'Empereur_," says the officer quietly.
"_Vive l'Empereur_," in deep and solemn tones repeats the old sergeant.
"_Vive l'Empereur_," comes from the lips of the four soldiers, and even the woman and the young people join in that ancient acclaim.
The great Emperor is dead long since.

He sleeps beneath the willows in the low valley in the lonely, far-off, wave-washed islet of St.Helena.
But to these men he will never die.

It is their blood that is upon that eagle staff.