“Serious! and so did you; hasn’t he enough to make him look serious?  Bony, and all the flower of the French before him.  I like to see him look serious; he’s just a thinking a bit, that’s all.  Look, look, look! where he is now pelting away up the hill there.  My eye! but he’s a rum on’.”

“Ay, just as he was in the ould ground,” cried an Hibernian. “’Pon my sowl, I think I’m in Spain agin.  There he is, success to him!—­an’ the smell o’ the powther too so natural.”

“The light troops are pushing on towards that wood,” said Gray, fixing his eyes on a particular spot.

“Sure enough they are.  Ah! we’ll soon have the boys up who will set them off with a flea in their ear.”

“Look—­on the rising ground there, about half a mile away, how they are moving about—­that is a train of artillery—­see the guns—­there is a regiment of infantry going to the left—­do you see their bayonets?  A fine open place here for a battle.”

“Not so good as that which we passed—­the plain fields we crossed immediately after we left the forest of Soignes,” said Gray:  “however, that little wood on our right, in front, which runs along the road, is a good flank, and the village before us is a strong point.”

“Ay, but you see the Belgian troops couldn’t keep it; the French have pushed them out of it.”

“We’ll soon have it again, I’ll warrant; our men have a fine open ground here, to give the French a lesson in dancing,” cried the corporal of the party, throwing himself down on his back in the corn.  “Here I’ll lie and rest myself; and I don’t think I shall be disturb’d by the buzzing of the blue flies!  I’ll have a snooze, until the Highlanders shall come up.”

The party remained undisturbed, as the last speaker had intimated, until about half-past one o’clock; nothing having been done in the way of attack by the French.  During the interval, Gray employed himself in watching closely the scene around him, and mentally discussing the chances of the now inevitably approaching fight.

The hour of struggle was near—­the pibroch burst upon the ears of the troopers, and up they started.

“Here they come,” cried one.—­“Here they come,” cried another—­“the gallant 42nd; look at the petticoat-devils, how they foot it along!”

All stood on the highest part of the ground, to witness the arrival of the troops, who were now within a quarter of a mile of them on the main road.  A hum arose.  Belgian officers galloped down the road, and across the fields in all directions; the duke was seen riding towards his expected soldiers, and the scene was life at all points.  The pibroch’s sound grew louder; and now the bands of the more distant regiments were heard; and the harmonious bugles of the rifle corps, mingled their sounds with the others.  The long red line of Britons is fully before the sight, like a giant stream of blood on the ripe and mellow bosom of the earth.  Picton is at its head, and the duke greets the heroic partner of his glory.  The first of the regiments passes close to the troopers, and receives a cheer from them, which found a return in the relaxing muscles of the hardy Scots.