"Never mind me, light bobs, but stand by Cameron to the last. Hurrah!" Convulsively he strove to raise himself up; but another bullet passed through his neck, and a deadly paleness overspread his countenance. He gave his claymore one last flourish, he cast a glance of fury and despair towards the enemy, and expired. Scarcely a minute had elapsed since he was struck, and now he was dead! "Poor Seaton!" muttered Ronald, and turned away. He had now the command of the light company; the other lieutenant lay bleeding to death a few yards off, and in the intervals of pain crying fruitlessly for water. One soldier, who had been struck by a shot across the bridge of the nose, became blind, and rushed frantickly among the enemy, to perish under their bayonets. Another, who had his lower jaw carried off, presented a horrible spectacle as he lay on the ground, vomiting up blood through his open throat, and lolling out his exposed and swollen tongue.[*] [*] This man lived for many years afterwards, having the loss supplied by a mask, through which soups were induced by a pipe for his sustenance. For pension he received the sum of nine-pence per day. "Ninety-second! Prepare to charge!" cried Cameron, animated to fury by this deadly slaughter of his regiment. "Gordon Highlanders! prepare to charge," he repeated, as he galloped along the broken line with eyes flashing fire, while he waved his bonnet aloft. "Close up,—keep together; shoulder to shoulder, Highland men,—charge!" Ronald alone heard him, and repeated the rash order; but their voices were unheard amidst the din of the conflict. At that moment the smoke cleared a little away, and in front Ronald perceived a French grenadier sling his musquet, and advancing a few paces before his friends, stoop down to rifle an officer of the 71st regiment, who was lying dead between the lines. "Iverach, mark that plundering rascal," said Stuart; "aim steadily." Evan fired and missed. "That was not like a man from the braes of Strathonan!" said his master angrily. "Fire, Ian Macdonald; you are one of the best shots in the company." "My father shot the _Damh mhor a Vonalia_ toon in Padenoch,[*] and I was aye thouchten to pe a petterer marksman than him," replied the young Highlander coolly, as he levelled his piece and fired. The Frenchman fell forward, beat the earth with his heels for a moment, and then lay motionless. [*] A famous white stag, shot in Badenoch in 1807. It was believed by the Highlanders to be more than 200 years old. "He’s toon, sir: I have pitten a flea in his lug," replied the marksman, as he bit another cartridge.