This exclamation was caused by the sudden appearance of a smartly-dressed officer, with glittering epaulettes and waving plume, cantering down before the British lines. "It's Marshal St Arnaud, him as commands the Froggies," shouted someone. The news spread through the ranks, and at once, lifting their rifles, the troops greeted the Marshal with three hearty British cheers, a compliment which evidently caused him much gratification. "We shall move now, Tony," remarked Phil gravely, "so we'll just shake hands, old man. One never knows what may happen. Perhaps it will be unnecessary, but we've a big fight before us, and who can say that we shall both come safely through it?" "No one, Phil. No one but Him as sits above," Tony answered earnestly; "but I tell yer we're coming through it, you and me, and you're going to do something for them stripes. I feel it somehow. But here's my hand, old pal. You've been a good 'un to me, and if I go this day, I'll have a better chance than a year or more ago. I shall, and yer know it." Tony grasped Phil's hand and wrung it, while tears stood in his eyes. Phil returned the pressure earnestly, and then they leant on their rifles and waited for the word to advance. Between nine and ten it came, and the Allies trudged forward over a wide sweeping plain leading to a ridge, beyond which lay the valley of the Alma, the valley--fair though it looked on that grand morning--of the shadow of death. And now guns in front boomed out, answering the shots of the Russian batteries, and each man grasped his rifle more firmly at the sound, while a keen, strained look came over his face, as though he had braced himself for the trial which was coming. Trudge, trudge, trudge! On moved the mass of men, looking grand in their varied uniforms, and all seeming anxious to get more quickly to that ridge in front and look upon the enemy. "Ah! there they are," exclaimed Phil with a sigh of relief as his company topped the rise and came in full view of the Russian position. "See, they are right in front of us if we only march in the direction we are taking now, so there will be plenty of work for us, you fellows! Hurrah for the fight!" and in the excitement of the moment, he snatched his bearskin from his head, and, tossing it into the air, caught it on his bayonet with the skill of a juggler. Instantly a wave of cheering spread along the British lines, and a forest of bearskins and head-gear of every description was thrust aloft on the gleaming bayonets, soon-- very soon--to be used in deadly and desperate earnest for another purpose. A minute later the answering cheers of the French came echoing along the lines, their "Vive l'Empereur!" piercing the morning air with a shrill note, showing that they too were roused to the highest pitch of enthusiasm.