Sergeant Linham had approached Jack, and he looked grimly at the strong position. ‘Ha, hum!’ he said, ‘many a man will lose the number of his mess before those heights are carried; but we shall do it.’ Just then the dense blue-uniformed masses of French infantry were seen moving forward to attack the Russian right. They advanced with a deal of dash, artillery supporting them. Soon a tremendous cannonade was in full progress, and the English line was halted till the French had achieved their object. Presently the English again moved forward, and the objects on the other side of the river became plain. It was then about one o’clock, the day was hot and cloudless; the sun shone down on what, had they not been advancing in the grim reality of war, would have been a glorious spectacle. Arms glittered, plumes waved, colours fluttered. Scarlet-coated light infantry, fated to bear the brunt of that day’s fighting, sombre-clad Riflemen, kilted Highlanders, bearskinned Guards, gaily braided artillerymen--all moved forward in the most beautiful order. No haste, no uncertainty; everything staid, orderly, majestic. Arrived within about a mile of the river, the British regiments began to deploy, and with the utmost coolness and precision moved forward for attack. Presently a boom was heard from the position in front of Jack’s division, and a round-shot came ripping across the river. Another and another followed, and soon a tremendous cannonade was opened on the English. Jack felt a sort of tightening of his heartstrings as the thunder of the artillery began; but the feeling of nervous anxiety died away when he saw with what absolute indifference to danger our gallant infantrymen deployed under a heavy fire. The Lancers were dismounted and a field-artillery battery was passing them on its way to the front when the reins suddenly dropped from a driver’s hands; he gave a sort of gasp, and then fell heavily on the ground. ‘Sunstroke,’ said Sergeant Barrymore, who was close by Jack, and running to the artilleryman he turned him on his back and dragged him away from the wheels of the guns. As he did so, the front of the man’s tunic was seen to be wet with blood. A splinter of shell had struck him in the heart! He was the first Englishman killed that day, and Sergeant Barrymore, new to war, went silently back to his horse.