Christmas Day came and went, the gallant heroes doing their best to be jovial; but, cold, ragged, and starved, it was a sad day for them. Early in the New Year the remnants of the brigade were returning from a reconnaissance they had made towards Tschorgoun, where, it had been stated, a large Russian force was gathering. It was a bitterly cold day, with a freezing wind which penetrated the ragged, tattered uniforms of the men and chilled them to the bone. Jack was riding with his face well buried in the collar of his cloak and his right hand in his pocket, when he turned to Will, who was riding by his side, to make some remark to him. He was immediately struck by the pallor of his friend’s face and the way in which it was drawn as though in agony. ‘Will, dear old Will, what’s the matter?’ cried Jack. For answer Will only groaned. Jack spurred closer just in time to catch him as he reeled in his saddle. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ repeated Jack in agitated tones. A couple of troopers dismounted, and Will was lifted from his saddle and laid on the ground. ‘Cholera,’ said one of the men sententiously. ‘Cheer up, Will!’ cried Jack. ‘What is it, old man?’ ‘Cramps, awful pains,’ moaned Will. ‘Leave me, Jack; I’m done for.’ ‘Nonsense! You’ll soon be all right.” A staff-officer who happened to have some brandy in his flask trotted up and gave the bottle to Will. The spirit rather revived him, and some of his companions helped him up in front of Jack, and they managed to get back to camp. Here Jack got Will to their tent, wrapped him up in both their blankets, which were fortunately dry; and, getting some charcoal from a man in the artillery, lit a fire. All that night Jack sat up by his friend, soothing him, rubbing him, and wiping the damp perspiration from his brow, while he heaped everything in the tent on him to keep him warm. It was a fight for poor Will between death and Jack; but morning broke and found Will still alive, though insensible. Barrymore came in and brought a doctor. He looked at Will, shook his head, and said,’Poor fellow! he might pull through if he had medical comforts and good nursing; but here, I’m afraid, he’s booked;’ and he shrugged his shoulders. ‘He sha’n’t die if I can help it,’ said Jack doggedly.--‘Barrymore, you must get me excused from duty. I’ll nurse Will, and if mortal man can save him I will.’ The doctor looked admiringly at the young sergeant. ‘My poor fellow,’ he said,’you’ll only kill yourself.’ ‘Then I accept my fate.’ The doctor went off; but in half-an-hour an orderly returned from him, bringing some soup, medicine, and a few instructions. All day Jack stuck to his task, and at night Barrymore helped him. In the morning the kind-hearted doctor again came in.