Jack had several times been to visit his new-found uncle, Colonel Harrington; who, though making progress, was still very ill, and the doctors had ordered him at once to return to England. Jack went down to Balaclava with him, and the colonel’s last words were, ‘When I get home, and am well enough, the first visit I shall make will be to your mother and your sisters. From what you have told me of the girls I am most anxious to see them. And as for you, dear Jack, take care of yourself, and mind and write to me. I shall use my influence for you at the Horse Guards, for if you intend to remain in the army I shall see that you serve as an officer, a position for which you have every qualification.’ Jack thanked his uncle cordially, and begged he would convey his love to all his relatives and friends. Riding back from Balaclava, having plenty of time, he dismounted and walked for a considerable distance along the fatal valley down which they had made their charge, looking about him at the Causeway Heights and the Fedoukine Hills, the different landmarks bringing back with startling vividness all the incidents of that day. There were many relics of the fight still lying about--rotting headdresses, rusty bits of accoutrements and arms, and hundreds of fragments of shell and half-buried round-shot. Skeletons of horses were plentiful, and Jack stood gazing at one, wondering whether it was that of his faithful Dainty, for he guessed he was about on the spot where she had fallen. Going some distance farther towards the hills he kicked a large boulder and moved it, when he saw a piece of discoloured metal which had been half-buried by it. Stooping, he picked it up and found it was a bugle, which had been crushed and battered as though smashed with a hammer. Curiosity prompted him to rub away the earth and rust from the bell of the instrument in order to see to which regiment it had belonged, when to his surprise he saw dimly No. 1243, 17th Lancers. That was his regimental number, and the bugle was his. In a flash he recollected how it was dashed from his grasp by a round-shot the last time he had ever sounded, for on that day he ceased to be a trumpeter. He remounted and made his way to camp, taking his relic with him. When he showed it to Barrymore, just outside the regimental’s tent, the latter said, ‘It’s very strange your finding it; however, you must keep it. And that reminds me, I have a relic which, when I thought you were dead, I found in your tent and meant to keep.’ He went into his tent and brought out an old battered lance-cap, with the corners all broken down, the plate bent, a bullet-hole through the square top, and a sword-cut on the side which had cut completely down to the round leather skull-piece, the cut having been stitched up with a bit of string. ‘Do you know this?’ asked Barrymore. ‘My old cap!’ said Jack in surprise.