I rather think she was scared by Studhome, who had ridden over with a couple of champagne bottles in his holsters, and whom she found smoking in my _kiosk_, with his shell-jacket open, and his stock off, and singing a song, the first verse of which was something in this style— My father cared little for shot or shell, He laughed at death and dangers; He’d have stormed the very gates of hell, At the head of the Connaught Rangers. How much I missed her! When she did return it was to bid me adieu, and to say that she had been ordered to attach herself to the 45th regiment of the French line, where severe duties awaited her, and that in all human probability I should never see her more. Those farewell words sounded sadly. We shook hands kindly, affectionately, and parted with tears in our eyes. In my heart I felt the love of a brother for that self-devoted French girl, and at that time she could but little foresee the sad offices I was to render her in the hour of suffering that was to come. *CHAPTER XXXIV* Then sacred be their last repose who fall Bravely and greatly at their duty’s call, Mix with their country’s cries the parting breath, And from the vanguard face her foes in death! I, too, have known the hour when friendship’s tear Has dewed from British eyes a comrade’s bier, When the rough soldier o’er the lowly cell Of fallen courage breathed a last farewell, Paid the last mournful honours to the brave, And left, with heavy heart, the new-closed grave. LORD GRENVILLE. On the 5th of September the allied armies embarked at Varna, and the 14th of the same month saw us landing in the Crimea, on ground near the Lake of Kamishlu—not that chosen by the gallant Lord Raglan originally—some miles north of the Bulganak river, at a place where the cliffs, a hundred feet in height, overhung the beach. But, save a boat-load of Zouaves, who were run down by a steam-transport, all were disembarked safely under cover of the cannon of the allied fleets, and without molestation from the enemy. The change of landing-place was owing to the treachery of the French, who altered the buoys in the night. Lord Raglan could scarcely forget, what many an old peninsular veteran remembered, that the auspicious day on which we made this landing in the country of the foe was the anniversary of the death of his former leader, the great Duke of Wellington. We were exactly thirty miles westward of Sebastopol. The morning was fine, and the surface of the Black Sea was smooth as glass. The whole of the troops of the light division were in their boats, in heavy marching order, with sixty rounds per man; packed close, each soldier sat with his firelock between his knees, and the seamen, with their oars out in the rowlocks, all motionless, and awaiting the signal.