The masters, it is true; but not the undisputed masters. A yet bloodier contest was to be waged for its possession--a contest which should make that small unfinished work, on which as yet no gun had been mounted, renowned throughout Europe. By the time that the 20th and 41st had been driven back, as we have just recorded, the Duke of Cambridge had reached the scene of action with the brigade of Guards--those renowned soldiers whose bayonets had carried the heights of Alma, and whose prowess was a theme of terror in the Russian camps. No soldier who had shared in or witnessed that tremendous fight could forget the terrible onslaught of those bear-skinned warriors, when the choicest troops of the Czar were trampled under foot, or scattered like chaff before their irresistible charge. The Coldstreams, no longer the magnificent battalion which a few months before left the shores of England, but reduced by the casualties of war and sickness to a few hundred badly fed and miserably-clothed men, though retaining all the ancient courage, heightened, indeed, by the hardships they had endured and the memory of their former achievements,--advanced in close ranks, at a rapid pace and with fixed bayonets, against the living wall of the Russians, who held the crown of the hill. Though the enemy were as ten to one, they yielded and broke before that matchless onset. Scattering the foe before them, the valiant Guardsmen swept like a hurricane into the battery, and the defeated Russians were precipitated, a flying and disordered mass, down the hill. The Coldstreams had well avenged their comrades’ fall, but they had not yet gained an undisputed success. On came fresh battalions of the Russians. The flying regiments were mingled with, or sought refuge behind the advancing legions. Again the dense mass struggled up the hill, and again did it devolve upon English valour to defend the post which had been so dearly won. Not less than 6000 Russians advanced in a compact mass towards the two-gun battery. The defenders did not muster more than as many hundreds. Nothing daunted, they fired through the embrasures and from the brow of the hill smart volleys; and when their ammunition failed, as at length it did, many hurled stones at the enemy. But moment by moment the advancing host drew nearer and nearer. The summit of the hill is reached, they surround the fort, leap over the earthworks, and in an instant there is a hand to hand struggle, such as, perhaps, was never excelled in modern warfare. They are repulsed--literally dashed down the hill. Twice the assault renewed; the second time they are again defeated; the third time they are once more in the battery. Bayonet crosses bayonet in rapid thrusts, fearful shrieks of agony are mingled with the shouts and curses of infuriated men, the floor is cumbered with the fallen and slippery with blood; the gallant Coldstreams are alone and unaided, and every moment fresh foemen rush into the deadly _mêlée_.