"Any way, I don’t like Cora’s dangler; but the fellow is plausible, and will be deuced hard to get rid of, unless Pitblado could mistake him for a partridge, or Splinterbar bolt across country with him, after we have given her a feed of oats, dashed with brandy. "I wish you could see Cora, as the good girl sits opposite me just now, reading. Her dark hair smoothly braided over her tiny ears; a muslin dress of pink and white, fastened by your old Rangoon brooch; and she blushes scarlet with pleasure as she desires me to send her love to you." So ended this eccentric letter. I felt irritated. But why should I? Cora might have a lover if she chose. But then to throw herself away upon old Wheedleton’s son—old Wheedleton, whose father was the village tailor! Something like an oath escaped me; but at that moment Sergeant-Major Drillem made his appearance, to announce that my squadron, with that of Captain Travers, was detailed for the advanced guard of cavalry on the Belbeck road, and that the trumpets would sound "boot and saddle" an hour before dawn to-morrow. In the dusk we got under arms, mounted, and, with the troops riding in sections of threes, I rode from Eskel at a slow pace, crossed the Katcha—a position stronger, in some respects, than the Alma, and which the Russians might have disputed by inches, had we not cowed them; and then we took the road towards Belbeck, while the whole army was getting under arms. My orders were simply to be on the alert, to advance in line when the ground was sufficiently open for such a formation, and to "feel the way" towards Belbeck, which lay only four miles distant. Such were the instructions given to me by Colonel Beverley, whose eyes sparkled at the coming work, for he was one of that race of men "known by the kindling grey eye and the light, stubborn, crisping hair—disclosing the rapture of instant fight." As we moved off we nearly trampled down a wounded cornet of the 11th Hussars, who lay under a tree. "That wretched little cornet of yours," said Berkeley to a captain of the 11th; "he reminds me—haw—of one of the new Minie rifles." "How?" asked the other, coldly. "He is a small bore—haw—what do you think of the pun?" "That it is poor, and the occasion is bad," replied the hussar, sternly. "The poor boy will be dead before sunset." "A doocid good thing for himself, and—haw—for us, too. He always beats us at billiards," was the heartless response of Berkeley. "Is it true," said I, "that Lieutenant Maxe, of the navy, has opened a communication with our fleet at Balaclava?"