Our camp presented a very mournful spectacle. Officers, non-commissioned officers, and men, were being carried home covered with wounds; some limping along, others besmeared with dirt, powder, and blood, doing their best to reach the camp, assisted by a comrade. A great number of "resurrectionists" turned up (men who did not return to camp with their companies, and were reported killed or missing). These had got so far in advance that they, poor fellows, could not get back until the flag of truce was up. So some got into pits, others into large holes made by shells, and there had to lie. It would have been madness for them to have attempted to reach our trenches across the open field amidst the withering fire that the enemy could have brought to bear upon them. We were only too glad to receive them back. As it was, the poor old Fusiliers had suffered fearfully; we had paid dearly for leading the way. And although we had lost our brave Colonel and Adjutant, and almost all our officers had been hit more or less, still that indomitable pluck that will carry a Briton through fire and water was not all thrashed out of us. On all sides one heard such expressions as--"Well, we'll warm them up for this yet!" The questions asked were "I say, have so-and-so come back?" "Have you seen ----?" "Has Sergeant ---- come back?" Men were running about the camp inquiring about particular friends, and as soon as they found me writing home, I was besieged. "Sergeant, will you write a line for me, please?" I think I wrote close upon twenty short notes for our men, some of whom were wounded slightly; others had nasty cuts and bruises, and wanted to conceal them, thinking that we should have another go-in before long. Our Allies, the French, seemed down-hearted, and very low-spirited. They cannot fight a losing battle; so long as they are victorious they do not appear to care much what they lose. As far as we were concerned, we knew well that we had lost a friend--our best friend--in our dear old Colonel. He was as brave as a lion, and his familiar cry was: "Come on men; follow me." Not half-an-hour before he fell he was in prayer. He knew that he was going to lead the way, and that thousands must fall. But, reader, that gallant soldier was ready for life or death. He could have been seen walking up and down in the trench, addressing one after another. Some of his expressions were: "Men, when we advance, move your legs; remember, not a shot; all must be done with the bayonet." When the order was given to advance, we all rushed over the trench, the Colonel shouting, "Fusiliers, follow me, and prove yourselves worthy of your title." I was close to him. He had ordered a number of active non-commissioned officers to keep up with him; and, as we bounded across the plain, he waved his sword and shouted, "Fusiliers, follow me; come on!" Just before he fell he stopped to have a look around. At this time our poor