The fresh-coloured, smart-looking lads were cheering loudly, for they had heard of the glorious victory of Inkermann. Presently they came abreast of the Lancers, and they stared hard at the handful of war-worn, tattered, bearded, dirty horsemen, with battered caps and rusty arms. One youngster said to another as they passed Jack, ‘What troops are these, Bill, old man?’ ‘Look like the “Beggars’ Own,”’ answered Bill. ‘I reckon they’re Frenchies.” ‘No fear,’ said another; ‘they’re English; look at their faces.’ ‘Crikey, Bill!’ said the first speaker, ‘they ain’t much to look at; a wash ’u’d do ’em good,’ at which there was a laugh, and several of the troopers who had ridden down the Valley of Death coloured redly. ‘Poor fellows!’ said Barrymore to Jack, ‘wait till they’ve been in the Crimea a fortnight and taken a turn at trench and picket duty, they’ll understand things a bit then.’ Alas! within a month that regiment had lost two-thirds of its number, mostly from cholera. The work in the trenches was being pushed forward rapidly; but there was no longer any hope that Sebastopol could be taken by assault. True, the Russians had lost heart over Inkermann, and it was doubtful whether they could again be got--at least for months--to come out in the open and face the English, and all felt that the siege must be a long and protracted affair. The losses in the trenches and from sickness were nearly a hundred a day, and the handful of men before Sebastopol knew that unless speedy reinforcements arrived they would be absolutely at the mercy of the enemy. A week after Inkermann, had the Russians attempted another sortie the result might have been different. The weather changed, and it began to get bitterly cold, and rain fell in torrents. ‘I believe we shall have to winter here,’ said Will to Jack one night as they shiveringly turned into their tent. ‘Then may the Lord help us,’ replied Jack, ‘for few of us will live to see the spring again.’ ‘It almost seems as if the people at home had forgotten us.’ ‘It’s easy to do that, sitting before a cosy fire after a good dinner, your feet in slippers, a book in your hand, and’---- ‘For goodness’ sake shut up, Jack, or I shall murder you,’ said Will, ‘to draw such a picture with us here, hungry, cold, and wet, with nothing but the sodden ground to sleep on. Ugh, it’s awful!’ Jack and Will occupied a tent together. Since Balaclava all troop distinctions had been lost. The handful of survivors formed themselves into one regiment, the men of different corps making troops. Since that day in the North Valley the survivors seemed drawn together by a mutual bond of sympathy, and in place of the jealousy often existing between regiments there was a feeling of good-fellowship.