We were under arms--I saw a part of the enemy's lines before us--we were ordered to advance--I knew that in ten minutes the work of death would begin, and I felt--not faintish, but some way confoundedly like it. The first firing commenced by the advanced wing; at the report, my knees shook (not visibly), and my heart leaped within me. A cold sweat (a slight one) broke over me. I remember the sensation. A second discharge took place--the work was at hand--something seemed to _crack_ within my ears. I felt I don't know how; but it was not courageous, though, as to running away or being beaten, the thought never entered my head. Only I did not feel like what you read about _heroes_. Well, the word '_Fire_' was given to our own regiment. The drum of my ear actually felt as if it were split. My heart gave one terrible bound, and I felt it no more. For a few moments all was ringing of the ears, smoke, and confusion. I forgot everything about death. The roar of the action had become general--through its din I at intervals heard the sounds of the drum and the fife. But my ears instantly became, as it were, '_cased_.' I could hear nothing but the word of command, save a hum, hum, something like a swarm of bees about to settle round my head. I saw nothing, and I just loaded as I was ordered, and fired--fired--fired!--as insensible, for all the world, as if I had been on a parade. Two or three of my neighbours were shot to the right and left; but the ranks were filled up in a twinkling, and it was not every time that I observed whether they were killed or wounded. But, as I say, after the third firing or so, I hardly knew whether I was dead or living; I acted in a kind of way mechanically, as it were, through a sort of dumfoundered desperation, or anything else ye like to call it; and if this be courage, it's not the sort of courage that I've heard and read about--but it's the only kind of courage I felt on entering on my first engagement, and, as I have said, there are none that would dare to call me _coward_! But as I was telling ye, we have twice completely beaten Soult within these fourteen days. We have driven them out of Spain; and, but for the bad winter weather, we would have driven them through France before now. But we have driven them into France; and as I said, even in their own country, we have beaten them twice. Soult had his army all drawn up and ready, upon a rising ground, before a town they call Orthes. I have no doubt but ye have some idea of what sort of winter it has been, and that may lead you to judge of what sort of roads we have had to wade through in a country like this; and that we've come from where nobody ever had to complain of being imprisoned for the