“Now,” said the old church-clerk, “I will tell you all about it. The allies landed about twenty miles from Sebastopol, and proceeded to march against it. When nearly half way, they found the Russians posted on a hill. Their position was naturally very strong, and they had made it more so by means of redoubts and trenches. However, the allies, undismayed, attacked the enemy, and after a desperate resistance, drove them over the hill, and following fast at their heels, entered the town pell-mell with them, taking it and all that remained alive of the Russian army. And what do you think? The Welsh highly distinguished themselves. The Welsh fusileers were the first to mount the hill. They suffered horribly—indeed, almost the whole regiment was cut to pieces; but what of that? they showed that the courage of the Ancient Britons still survives in their descendants. And now I intend to stand beverage. I assure you I do. No words! I insist upon it. I have heard you say you are fond of good ale, and I intend to fetch you a pint of such ale as I am sure you never drank in your life.” Thereupon he hurried out of the room, and through the shop into the street. “Well,” said I, when I was by myself, “if this news does not regularly surprise me! I can easily conceive that the Russians would be beaten in a pitched battle by the English and French—but that they should have been so quickly followed up by the allies as not to be able to shut their gates and man their walls is to me inconceivable. Why, the Russians retreat like the wind, and have a thousand ruses at command, in order to retard an enemy. So at least I thought, but it is plain that I know nothing about them, nor indeed much of my own countrymen; I should never have thought that English soldiers could have marched fast enough to overtake Russians, more especially with such a being to command them, as —, whom I, and indeed almost every one else, have always considered a dead weight on the English service. I suppose, however, that both they and their commander were spurred on by the active French.” Presently the old church clerk made his appearance, with a glass in one hand, and a brown jug of ale in the other. “Here,” said he, filling the glass, “is some of the real Llangollen ale; I got it from the little inn, the Eagle, over the way, which was always celebrated for its ale. They stared at me when I went in and asked for a pint of ale, as they knew that for twenty years I have drunk no liquor whatever, owing to the state of my stomach, which will not allow me to drink anything stronger than water and tea. I told them, however, it was for a gentleman, a friend of mine, whom I wished to treat in honour of the fall of Sebastopol.” I would fain have excused myself, but the old gentleman insisted on my drinking.