"Lest I should live longer; because, in doing so, I could scarcely fail in some way to offend heaven," replied the poor girl. "I confessed me two days ago—I die in peace, and forgive those Cossaques—_mon ami_—_mon frère_, I should say—you will close my eyes—you will see me buried—promise me that you will!" I could only answer her by my tears; and strange it seemed that all around the thicket where this solemn scene was acting, and when the spirit of this good being was hovering between eternity and time, the thousands of our army, horse, foot, and artillery, with ammunition and stores, were pouring past in the bright morning sunshine, towards the passage of the Bulganak. All around was instinct with the glitter and bustle of martial life; but within that olive grove was death, sublime humility, and suffering. "Are you in pain now?" I asked, as this thought occurred to me. "Oh, no—pain is long since passed away. If I could but live till three in the afternoon, I could then die more than ever happily." "Why at three?" "For at that time our Blessed Lord yielded up his soul on Calvary!" said she, with a voice of enthusiasm, while a strange brightness seemed to pass over all her face. As she turned restlessly her eyes fell upon Sergeant Stapylton and the lancers, and beckoning them forward, she bestowed her blessing on each; and they listened with bowed heads, and took off their caps. I was deeply moved, and drew a pace or two aside. "Heaven has always been so good to me," she muttered, in broken English, as the sergeant placed his cloak as a pillow under her head; "because, as you must know, _messieurs les soldats_, my mother dedicated me to heaven, and I am a child of the Holy Virgin." Poor Stapylton, a worthy but stolid John Bull, looked rather bewildered by this information; but my Irish groom understood her. "Thrue for you, miss," said Lanty, wiping his eyes with the worsted tassels of his yellow sash. "Oh, it’s fast she’s goin’ to glory, the poor cratur. Oh, never a ha’porth she thinks of herself; but it is us she’s prayin’ for, boys." "Other souls than mine shall pass away to-day, for ere nightfall a great battle is to be fought—I know that." At that moment, through an opening in the olive trees, we saw a regiment of infantry marching past in close column of subdivisions, with the band in front, colours flying, and bayonets gleaming in the sun. It was our 88th, of gallant memory, with Colonel Shirley riding at the head of the column, and the drums and fifes made the blue welkin ring to the air of "The Young May Moon." She looked wistfully at the defiling ranks; there was so much of life there, so much of death here! Then, clasping her white hands, which were so thin and tremulous, and, closing her eyes, she began to repeat a little prayer in Latin, for those who were to fall on both sides—the Russians as well as the English. Of that prayer I can only remember a single sentence—