It being necessary to despatch the mail from the first division at Balaklava to that of General Cathcart’s on the heights S.W. of Sebastopol, corporal John McQueen and private James Brennan volunteered for the duty. Cheerfully they jogged along the lonely road, and having delivered the letters at the camp commenced to return with that easy _abandon_ so becoming soldiers. McQueen had been out on a coasting expedition, and prided himself with the belief that because he knew Sebastopol from the sea, he must as a consequence know every step of the road to Balaklava. He, however, soon found out his mistake. Losing their way, the letter-carriers struck on a road which took them into the Picket House ravine, up which they strode at a steady pace, straining their eyes through the darkness to discover a clue which should enlighten them as to their situation. Presently they were hounded by some dogs led on by a horseman with a glimmering lamp attached to his girdle. Luckily a cavern was near, and the sappers bounding into it, the dogs and the Cossack passed on. Allowing sufficient time to elapse to confuse the rider and his canine attendants, the comrades emerged from the cave, and regaining the road, turned in the direction of Sebastopol, impressed with the conviction that they had taken the correct route for the port. Allured by a fire which was burning on the hill to the left of the ravine, they began to ascend the slope to join the picket—supposed to be a Turkish one—who, grouped around the blazing sticks, were enjoying their pipes—an enviable pastime in which McQueen was anxious to participate. The night was still black; nothing could be seen, especially in the valley, for the picket-fire spread its capricious illumination over so small an area, that beyond the guard, the faint outline of objects only could be traced, and a little further on the dimness thickened into impenetrable darkness. So, suddenly coming on a pair of sentries concealed under some overhanging rocks, the sappers as suddenly stopped without losing their coolness. “Give me light, Turco?” said McQueen, placing a pipe between his teeth and pressing its bowl near the sentry’s chibouk. The sentry shrunk back: he was a Russian; and without word or challenge, in a moment the bayonet flashed, and the next it was plunged through the corporal’s body, while the companion sentry stabbed Brennan in the left shoulder. At the instant McQueen shot up in the air, then fell; but deadly wounded as he was, his entrails bursting through the puncture, he started from the ground, and, accompanied by Brennan, both ran at a furious speed pursued by the swift-footed sentinels. A wide ditch interrupted their course, into which McQueen and Brennan tumbled, but the cowardly Russians—for such they were to attack two unarmed men—gave up the pursuit.