It was such a day as can never fade from the memory of those who took part in it; but the Welsh Fusiliers have special reason to remember it. Their ranks were thinned, but they still pressed forward, and followed their gallant leader as he leaped his horse into the midst of the enemy’s works to show his men there was no danger. The Russians were seized with a sort of panic; the artillerymen began to limber up their guns and to fall back upon their reserves, which were posted in the rear. A sort of cry of disappointment rose from our men at the thought that there was no more fighting to be done—“The Russians are retreating; they are limbering up. Stole away! stole away!” But the fighting was not over; there was still bloody work to be done on the heights of the Alma. The enemy’s artillery continued their fire as they retreated, and many of our men were struck down as they approached the empty embrasures. The first to mount them was young Anstruther, who carried the colours of the Royal Welsh. Though an officer of that regiment, he was a Scotchman by birth, and his conduct that day will invest a name already distinguished in the annals of the North with a halo of glory. He was a mere boy, fresh from school, but he was determined to do some deathless deed on this the morning of his first battle. Leaping and running are favourite pastimes in Fife, as in every Scottish county, and none could run better than the light, boyish figure that held aloft the colours of the Royal Welsh, and pressed forward before all the others. He was the first who gained the redoubt, and, planting the butt-end of the colours in the centre of the parapet, he stood for a moment clutching it in his arms, breathless and silent, as if surprised at his own audacity. There were hundreds of hearts beating high with admiration as they saw the slim figure of the Scottish youth on the summit of the parapet. Alas! it was seen there only for a moment. A bullet passed through his body, and he fell, dragging with him the flag-staff, as if he would not part with it even in death. The crimson folds of the colours, which covered his body like a pall, were stained with a deeper dye as his heart’s blood ebbed away. The soul of the young hero was gone. But it was no time for tears; the colours were in danger, and the colours must be saved. Butler, the other colour-officer, was slain; but William Evans, a swift-footed Welshman, mounted the parapet, drew the flag-staff gently from the hands of the dying boy, and held it aloft, to show that the Royal Welsh were the first to mount the Great Redoubt. He then, in accordance with military etiquette, handed the colours to Corporal Luby, his superior officer, who, in turn, delivered them up to Sergeant Luke O’Connor, with whom they remained during the rest of the day. No wonder that young Anstruther fell: no less than seventy-five bullets passed through the colours, and the pole of one of them was shot in two, and had to be spliced with a cord.