On the day of our march from the Katcha I was struck down by fever, fell from my pony into the stream where he was drinking, and was placed by one of the staff surgeons in a jolting araba carrying a part of the baggage of the Light Division, with poor Hughes of the 23rd Regiment, one of the finest men in the British army, who died in the course of the winter. The sun was exceedingly powerful, and when from the top of a wooded hill we saw the delicious valley of the Belbek studded with little snow-white cottages, with stately villas, with cosy snug-looking hamlets buried in trees, and fringed with a continuous line of the most gloriously green vineyards, and the noblest orchards of fruit-trees, there was a murmur of delight throughout the army, the men, precipitating themselves down the steep slopes of the hill-sides, soon swarmed in every garden, and clustered in destructive swarms around every bush. Their halt was, however, a short one. The word was given to push over the stream, and its bright waters were soon denied by the tramp of many feet. Just as the araba in which I lay was passing by a beautiful little chateau, said to belong to a Russian general, I saw a stream of soldiers issue from it, laden with incongruous, but at the same time the richest, spoils; others were engaged inside, breaking the glasses, throwing mirrors, pictures, and furniture out of the open frames. I learned from an officer who was standing by that the soldiers had not done the smallest mischief till they saw a staff-officer take a bronze statuette out of the house and ride away with it, whereupon the cry arose, "Let us plunder too if our officer sets the example." I could not help thinking what would have been the fate of that officer if he had served under our great Duke.