Jack and Barrymore, saluting, said he was. ‘And you, _sous officiers_,’ he said, ‘I saw you bring him from under fire. Ah, _mes braves_, if you were French I would make you officers on the spot.’ He was the same officer who on seeing the charge exclaimed, ‘It is splendid, but it is not war!’ A little revived, Jack and Barrymore walked on to the crest of the hill on which the remnants of the Light Brigade were forming up. The flutter of lance-pennons showed where Jack’s regiment was, and the two battle-weary soldiers walked towards them. Jack counted the survivors, officers and men, under thirty! The 13th Light Dragoons were barely a dozen, and the remains of all five regiments numbered but little over a hundred men. Many of these were bareheaded and blood-stained; all had a strained, far-away look in their eyes which told of the terrible ordeal through which they had passed.[6] Jack gazed along the faces of the men of his own regiment; but none of his particular friends were there. Captain Norreys, Cornet Leland, Linham, Brandon, Pearson, Williams, Hodson--all, all gone. Jack turned his eyes down the hill. One or two weary, wounded stragglers were seen coming up--a man of the 11th Hussars, his head bound up, leaning round the neck of a Light Dragoon; two men of the 8th, half-carrying a trumpeter between them. Jack strained his eyes; it was not Larry, neither did he see his Irish friend with his regiment. He felt his hand grasped, and, turning, saw Will, his arm bound round with a blood-stained bandage. He had just come from having his wound dressed. ‘Will, Will,’ cried Jack, ‘where are our comrades--where is the old regiment?’ ‘Gone, Jack. All gone,’ half-sobbed Will; and at those words Jack’s fortitude gave way and the tears rolled down his weather-beaten face. ‘It can’t be helped Jack,’ said Will. ‘It’s been a horrible blunder; but at least we’ve done our duty. You’re wounded though. Look at your cap.’ Jack removed his battered lance-cap, and found it had a bullet-hole through it, and that a sabre had cut the square top right down to the plate in front, inflicting a slight wound on his head, of which he was quite unaware. He had a graze from a bullet on his left shoulder, the right leg of his overalls had been ripped open by a lance or sword, exposing the flesh, and there were several rents in his uniform. ‘I’m all right, Will,’ he said; ‘just tie my handkerchief round my shoulder till we are dismissed.’