We started at a sharp trot, and were hardly half way to Balaklava when the dusk of evening was settled over the noisy camps, through which we were then passing at full gallop. Mr. Anderson, knowing the road, as he thought, endeavoured to cross the camp by a short cut, when we were overtaken by night, and lost our way. What with the regiments sounding their bugles and the drums beating the retreat, it would have puzzled the coolest head and annoyed the best field-horses. Finding ourselves in one of the Zouave camps, we inquired of the men in which direction Balaklava lay. A group of about ten collected round us, and very politely pointed out the road. It was in a straight line, and not so much out of the way. “But,” said they, “you cannot cut across the camp, as this is the first day we hold the ground, and you are certain to be arrested by the sentries, and clapped in the violon for the night.” They also informed us that it was imprudent to gallop through the camp, for if the colonel was about, or it was reported to him, he would be sure to stop us. Another exclaimed, in French, “Don’t be afraid, friends; the colonel is not very severe in cases in which ladies are concerned. The officers are now devouring their popottes and taking their evening grog. There is no danger, captain; make the best of your way, as it is getting late, and there are a set of scamps prowling about who would think nothing of waylaying you for the sake of a five-franc piece.” Miss Nightingale, Mr. Bracebridge, and Mr. Anderson were riding slowly in front; P. M. was anxious to know what the Zouaves said, so I translated it as above, for the edification of my brave companion. We then started at a smart pace, but could not come up with our _avant garde_. We made another halt near a group who were sitting on the grass close to their tent, playing some game with a set of mutton bones, and drinking coffee. Others were singing their favourite African song, the “Beau Zouave d’Afrique--Vlan--sont toujours en avant--Vlan--Vlan--Rataplan--plan--plan.” Upon inquiring if they had seen two gentlemen and a lady on horseback, they replied, “Yes,” and pointed out the road they had taken. On asking them how they liked camp life, their answer was, “Oh, very much in Algeria, but not at all here; the weather is so bad, and that trench business is such dull work. We should prefer a battle once or twice a-week in the open field to being shot at like so many rabbits in the trenches.” Upon asking what they were drinking, they said, “Coffee; would you like to taste it?” “With great pleasure,” said I. Upon which they gave me some. It was not bad, but required a little more sugar. “Well,” they said, “we sometimes buy some, as we are only allowed about enough for breakfast.” I requested their acceptance of a few shillings to drink _la goutte_, which one of them immediately refused, saying, “No, no, Bourgeois; we did not ask you to taste our coffee wishing to make you pay for it.”