Barrymore saw Jack, and immediately called him, and Jack took his place in the ranks. There was no time then for explanations, and he rode on with his regiment till they came under a tremendous artillery fire. A shell burst right in amongst them, and several men and horses fell. ‘Poor Harry Scarfe is down,’ cried Jack. ‘Ay,’ growled Barrymore, ‘and so is our cornet; that leaves us only two officers.’ Unfortunately both men were killed; and, several other casualties occurring, the cavalry was retired. The French General decided to recall his troops, for they had all met with discomfiture. One regiment of Zouaves, however, remained, and with the remnant of our Guards they advanced towards the Sandbag Battery. So fierce was the attack the thus allied brigade delivered that the Russians were hurled back against the wall. The only outlets were the two embrasures; and, encumbered by their long coats, the Russians tried in vain to force themselves through. They were caught in a trap and a terrible slaughter ensued, the pursuit following them right down to the Quarry Ravine. Along the whole line the British were equally successful, the Russians were hurled back; and the eighteen-pounders continuing to do grand work, the Russian artillery fire was gradually overcome. General Pennefather ordered a fresh advance of his handful of men, only a few hundreds being left of his three thousand six hundred of the morning. ‘Forward once more, boys,’ he said, ‘and we’ll lick ’em yet--lick ’em to the devil!’ Once more they advanced, once more crossed bayonets with the sulky foe, no longer yelling like demons, but now fighting with the stubbornness of despair. Gradually they drove them back, the Russians again giving vent to that wailing cry of despair that had been heard on the heights of the Alma. About one o’clock a staff officer with Lord Raglan observed the Russians beginning to withdraw their artillery; then the news flew round that the enemy acknowledged his defeat, and at last the battle, the great ‘Soldiers’ Battle,’ was won. A mass of two thousand men, all gathered closely together, formed to cover the retreat of the Russian artillery. The eighteen-pounders were turned upon them, and the balls tore through, carrying cruel destruction with them. The moment had arrived for pursuit; but the fasting British were too exhausted to move, the French General refused to advance his troops unless the British supported him, and the Russians were allowed to fall sullenly back. There was no semblance of riot or disorder. The defeated battalions, still in their thousands, retreated in good order. By three o’clock Mount Inkermann was free of Russians, all but the ghastly thousands of dead and wounded. The French artillery followed the foe and did them some damage; but the ships from the harbour opened on them, and they retreated.