“At one of the ambulances I was bidden to enter, and found, by the feeble light of a reeking oil-lamp, some invalids fighting for a remnant of half-rotten food which they had just discovered in a forgotten cupboard. Men without legs, hands, or feet were clutching, scratching, kicking, struggling for morsels that no respectable dog or cat would look at twice. I pacified them, and distributed the unsavoury bits of meat. As I turned to go a man without legs caught hold of me from his mattress, begging me to carry him to the train bivouac, that he might follow the army. Happily an attendant turned up, and I wrenched myself away.” Herbert was returning by a narrow dark lane when someone sprang upon him and tore the paste-pot away from him. He had doubtless seen it by the light of the Lieutenant’s lantern, and thought the vessel contained food. He belaboured the fellow’s face with his brush, making it ghastly white, and setting him off to splutter and croak and swear, and finally he rammed the bristles hard down his throat. At this moment two other Bulgarians came up; but, taking time by the forelock, Herbert pasted their mouths and eyes before they could speak, then shouted out, “Good-night, gentlemen, and I wish you a very hearty appetite.” He then turned and ran for all he was worth to the officers’ mess-room. It was about ten o’clock p.m. when Osman Pasha and his staff rode up, preceded by a mounted torch-bearer, and escorted by a body of Saloniki cavalry. When he came out again, the light from the torch fell full upon his face. His features were drawn and care-worn, the cheeks hollow; there were deep lines on the forehead, and blue rings under his eyes. Their expression was one of angry determination. He responded to the salute with that peculiar nod which was more a frown than a greeting. They all rose and went after him into the street to see him mount his fine Arab horse. He and his staff spent that last night in one of the farm-houses on the western outskirts of Plevna. After a supper of gruel and bread, Herbert and the others walked in a body to the train bivouac. The night was intensely dark; a few snowflakes were flying about; it was freezing a little. They did not talk, for each was saying to himself, “It is all over with us now.” Hardly any expected to see the next nightfall. Herbert and two other Lieutenants slept in a hut by the river’s brink; they could hear the water murmuring, and every now and then a lump of ice made music against the piles. A little after five in the morning he moved on, crossed with the first division the shaky pontoon bridge, and rejoined his company. Twenty-four crack battalions of the First Division were marching on to face the ring of Russian guns; the dark hoods of the great-coats drawn over the fez and pointing upwards gave an element of grotesqueness to the men. They were marching to certain death, with hope in their hearts.