Some six months after the fall of Sebastopol, when peace negotiations were being carried on, some four or five non-commissioned officers (I being one of them) had been out for a walk on a Sunday afternoon. Returning home to camp up one of the ravines that had been the scene of the desperate strife at Inkermann, we met a party of some fifteen half-drunken Frenchmen coming down the hill. It was an awkward place for a row. The road was narrow; on one side was a solid rock, and the other a nasty slope of some thirty or forty feet, like an ugly railway embankment. As soon as the French caught sight of us they commenced to shout _Anglais non bon; non bon Anglais_--"English, you are no good; you are no good." One of our party was the gallant bruiser, to whom I have before alluded. He was what is called a well-scienced man, and of tremendous strength--"Yorkshire bite," we had nick-named him, as he hailed from Leeds. He immediately took command of us, directing us to sit down under the rocks. "Now lads, set thee doon," said he. "If these fellows interfere with us, you set still, and leave this little lot to me, and if I cannot settle them, my name is not Jacky Frith." They were rapidly approaching us, still shouting like madmen, "_Anglais non bon; non bon_," and cursing us with all the most filthy oaths they could muster, which we all understood, having been mixed up with them for two years. Well, we all sat still under the embankment, with the exception of our Yorkshire sprig. A monster of a French artilleryman was the first to come up--and the first to go down. He deliberately spat in our hero's face, shouting disdainfully _Anglais non bon_. The Yorkshireman's arm at once came into play,[13] with a blow that lifted him clean off his feet and sent him rolling from top to the bottom of the cudd. Another, or two, went at him, and he sent them to look after their comrade. Others rushed at him, but he proved himself more than a match for the lot. As far as we could see, one blow was quite enough. We all sat looking at the fun, almost bursting our sides with laughter, until the last had disappeared down the cudd. Our hero then put his hands into his pockets, and, looking over the cudd, shouted out that the English were _bon_ enough for them on the field of Waterloo, and were so now; and turning round to us with "Come on, boys, let's go home," left the French to get out the best way they could. Next day there was a parade for all hands, in order to pick out the men who had so disgraced themselves and the regiment, as our friends had stated that they had been overpowered by numbers, and that those who had attacked them belonged to the Fusiliers. I must say they all looked in a most pitiable plight; some with their heads bandaged, some with black eyes, others with their arms in slings, and some limping with the assistance of a stick. They were accompanied by a French general officer (I think MacMahon). After a