"God help the poor fellow!" said Captain O’Hare; "what’ll he do now with those two little children? How are they?" "Well, sir, and cosy; that good woman gave her life for them. The sergeant’s crazy, sir, and the wagon’s come to grief that they were riding in. I thought, sir—" "Well?" "I wouldn’t like to leave ’em behind, sir, and the sergeant’s as weak as a rat and can hardly trail his pike. Couldn’t I carry one, sir?" "Sure an’ you can. Take turns with another man. And the other one—the poor little colleen—" "Pomeroy and I will look after her," said Jack. "It’ll give us something to think about. We’ll either carry her by turns or get some of our best men to do it." And so it happened that for the rest of the retreat two little children, a boy and a girl, rode along in the rain on the shoulders of tender-hearted Riflemen, who talked to them and cheered them, so that the small things, all unconscious of their irreparable loss, prattled and laughed and felt exceedingly proud of their unusual altitude. It is the morning of January 10th; the regiments are climbing the face of a range of hills, the last, they have been told, that intervene between them and the harbour of Corunna. The rain has ceased, the sky clears, and as the drenched and footsore warriors top the crest the sun bursts through a lingering cloud and throws its low beams from behind them. "The sea! the sea!" A great shout reverberates over the rugged hills. Below lies the little town of Betanzos, and beyond it the blue white-crested waters of the Atlantic. Corunna is only a few miles distant; the end of the long agony is in sight; and the sudden coming of weather springlike in its mildness after the severity of winter, fills all hearts with unutterable gladness. Colonel Beckwith roars at his men with a gruffness which nobody mistakes, and the fierce tension of General Paget’s face is relaxed for the first time for many days. "The finest retreat that was ever retreated," cries Captain O’Hare, who, though he looks only the shadow of his former self, has suddenly recovered his usual cheerfulness. "But what’s afoot down yonder, begorra?" All eyes follow his gaze downhill. They light on a curious spectacle. In the distance the road is dark with French cavalry, their helmets and accoutrements flashing in the unwonted sunlight. Between them and the heights there marches a nondescript horde of stragglers, in all uniforms, from all regiments. But they are no longer straggling. Formed in a solid mass across the road, they are retiring by alternate companies, one company remaining to face the French, another marching along the road until they reach a position whence they can cover the first’s subsequent retreat. Time after time Franceschi’s horsemen charge; but every charge is beaten back by the rolling fire of the British, who fight and retire, retire and fight, with equal steadiness.