that final moment of onset did but crown the fortitude of those long, slow days of dying by inches in the slow clutch of starvation, that had been so much harder to bear, while they saw their comrades in the anguish of cholera and felt their own limbs freezing beneath them. But it was doubtless a brave assault, and it was sad that their loved commander was not there to see; for, while the Malakoff fell before the French, it was the British troops that took the Redan—that Redan of which it has been written that “three months before it had repulsed the attacking force with fearful carnage, and brought Lord Raglan to a despairing death.” There is tragedy, therefore, in the fact that when, so soon afterwards, Sebastopol fell, the triumph was not his. It was on September 8, amid a furious storm which suddenly broke up a summer-like day, that the cannonade joined with the thunder and the final assault was made. Though the first shouts of victory came at the end of an hour, it was nightfall before the fighting ceased and the Russians retreated. Sebastopol was in flames. And before the next day dawned the last act in this terrible war-drama was over. Within a month of leaving Scutari Miss Nightingale was already there again, and during these days of slowly returning strength, when she wandered sometimes through the beautiful cemetery where the strange, black-plumaged birds fly above the cypresses and, against the background of the blue Bosphorus, the roses garland the tombs, she planned, for the soldiers who had fallen, the monument which now stands there to their undying memory, where under the drooping wings of the angels that support it are inserted the words, “This monument was erected by Queen Victoria and her people.” CHAPTER XVIII. _The Nightingale Fund—Miss Nightingale remains at her post, organizing healthy occupations for the men off duty—Sisters of Mercy—The Queen’s jewel—Its meaning._ Far and wide spread the news of the fall of Sebastopol, and London took the lead in rejoicings. The Tower guns shouted the victory, the arsenals fired their salutes, cathedrals and village churches rang out their welcome to peace. There were sons, husbands, brothers, fathers, for whom there would be no more home-coming on earth; and some who would come back broken and maimed: but all had served their country, and heroism lasts beyond time and death. All through the empire arose an outcry of thanksgiving to the woman who still remained at her post among the sick and the dying—the woman who had saved England’s honour in the day of disgrace and neglect, and had saved also countless lives among her brave sons.