Here were the men from India, the regiments of the Seventy-third, the Seventy-fourth, wearing the badge of the “elephant,” the Seventy-sixth, too, that unfurled its victorious pennants at the Battle of Leswarree, and the Seventy-seventh and Seventy-eighth, and on, on, straight in the line, brave squadrons, whose illusive recognition in a numeral, connoted glorious deeds, defiant strength, the prodigal powers of the brave. The thundering salutations drowned the rollicking music of “Clear the Way,” the cry at Barrosso, which with fife and drum announced the approach of the Eighty-seventh--the Prince of Wales’ own Irish--and the Eighty-eighth, the Connaught Rangers, whose more loving sobriquet was “The Devil’s Own Connaught Boys,” from its gallantry in action, and its irregularities in quarters. Uniform and vanity with reciprocal enhancement made the Argyleshire Highlanders and the Gordon Highlanders and the Sutherland Highlanders an envious spectacle to manly youth, a vision of ingratiating heroes to feminine beauty. Again India sprang back to memory, perhaps not without, to souls of Leacraft’s fibre, inflicting some stinging stabs of remorse, when the One Hundred Foot, the One Hundred and Second Foot, “the Lambs,” the One Hundred and Third Foot, “the Old Toughs,” the One Hundred and Fourth Foot, and Seventh, and Eighth, and Ninth marched past, with ear shattering dim, in resplendent waves of color, and expressing the English temperament of reserved force, and intelligent determination, with, to the more analytical observer, a suggestion of brutal power in their sturdy and inelastic tramp.