get a chance shot at some unwary Russian. Enter now the 21-gun battery where four magazines are rebuilding. The sappers are quite at home raising the frames by the sickly beams of a feeble siege lamp; but look, a flying stone has just broken the horn and the wind has extinguished the flame. Yet, undiscouraged, the sappers work away by feeling the points and bases of their timbers. Go where you will, in battery, trench, or mine, a sapper is the centre of each party toiling at his hazardous vocation through the long dark night. Daylight has returned. “What can that moaning noise be?” A 13-inch shell has dashed against a magazine and blown it up! The gunners are maimed, suffocated, or killed! and the timbers are either carried away or left charred and tottering on the rock. Run and see the effect. The magazine is a ruin, the ground smokes and burns, and the dead and mutilated are being borne away; but there again are the sappers tearing through the smouldering frames and fallen planks, examining the extent of the disaster and preparing for the restoration. “These men tho’ few in number seem everywhere and in everything. What can be their motto?” “Ubique quo fas et gloria ducunt!” “That accounts for it.” At midnight on the 2nd May, a sapper was putting a new face to the embrasure of the flank gun in No. 8 battery, on the left attack, when a round shot ploughed the crest of the parapet on its right flank and struck down Lieutenant Carter of the engineers, killing at the same moment Lieutenant Curtis of the 46th regiment. The flying sand bespattered the workman but he was else unhurt. Quitting the embrasure, he sought by his attention to lighten, if possible, the mortal throes of his officer. In a few moments all was over, and the sapper, with grave sympathy, bore away the body of that brave young man to the camp.