It is the morning of the 25th of October, and a lull comes between the storm-gusts. The "Heavies" have just taken up their position, after that magnificent charge, in which the Russian lancers were scattered like dead leaves in autumn when the wind is blowing freshly. There are murmurs of discontent running the ranks of the Light Brigade; it seems as if _their_ chance was never coming. One of his intimates grumbles as much to Royston Keene. The Cool Captain straightens a stray lock of his charger's mane, and answers, with his old provoking smile, "Don't fret yourself, George. I have a presentiment that we shall get rid of the 'fidgets' before we sleep. See--_that_ looks like business." It seemed as if a spirit of prophecy possessed him; for even while he was speaking, the aide-de-camp came down at speed. There was a pause while that message was delivered, the exact words of which will never be known--for you can not summon the dead as witnesses; then a brief hesitation, and a dozen sentences exchanged between the first and second in command; and then--every trooper in the Brigade understood what he had to do. Many drew true and evil augury from the cloud lowering on the stern features of the "Haughty Earl." Keene had been under fire oftener than most there, and his practiced eye took in and appreciated every item of the peril; nevertheless, his brow cleared, and all his face lighted up strangely. "What did I tell you, young one?" he said to the man who had addressed him just before; "it will be warmer work than the old Phoenix field-days; but one comfort is, it won't last so long." Before the words were fairly uttered the trumpets rang out; and with a gayer laugh on his lip than it had worn for many a day, the Cool Captain led his squadron gallantly into Aceldama.