“What corps is that?” inquired one of the group.

“The Royal Highlanders, the 42nd—­don’t you see they are turned up with blue and gold?” replied another.

“And what’s this with the yellow facings?”

“The old 92nd.”

“And the other Scotch regiment, with the green and gold?”

“The 79th; three as good kilted corps as ever crossed the Tweed.  And there’s the 95th rifle boys, as green as the wood they are going to take.  And there see the 28th,—­and the 44th,—­and the 32nd;—­that’s Picton’s division; a glorious set of fellows as ever slept.”

“And who are the fellows all in black?”

“The bold Brunswick corps, with death’s head on their caps—­the undertakers of the French,” cried the corporal.

Never did a young hero gaze on a gallant army with more enthusiastic feelings, than did Gray upon the troops before him—­the sight stirred his heart-strings.  They were within shot of their foe, and half an hour should see them in the bloody contest.  He sighed to think that his own regiment was not yet come up, with which he might share the glory of the fight.

One after the other, the corps entered the fields, across the high corn, from the road, to take up their positions for the battle.  Neither cavalry nor artillery had they to support them—­their bayonets were their hopes; and their wise general placed them accordingly in squares, and at such distances as that one might support the other, while each would protect itself, independently, if necessary.  The rifle corps now advanced, to open the business of the day by firing into a field of tirailleurs.  The French were not idle at this time; they advanced in masses—­cavalry and infantry; while a roar of cannon, that almost deafened every ear, covered the attack.

“They are coming on the centre,” cried Gray:  “see the cuirassiers—­what a body of men!  Oh! where is our cavalry?”

“Ay,” cried a trooper; “and look, what columns of infantry!”

All now remained in breathless anxiety, gazing on the approaching masses of the enemy; not a word was spoken amongst the well-planted squares of the British.  The French are within fifty yards of them, and the battle begins.

“There,” cried a trooper; “how our men give it to them!—­there’s a volley!—­look how the horses fall!—­see, they can’t stand it—­hurra!—­the rascals are staggered—­the 27th are after them—­they deploy into line; there the French go, with the bayonet at them, helter-skelter.  But observe, at a little distance from them, the enemy’s dragoons are at the 42nd—­the Scotch open and let them pass; but now they get it right and left.  Down they go; bravo! old Scotland.”

“By heaven!” cried Gray, “here come the Brunswick horse in confusion, pursued by the cuirassiers along the road, near the village.”

All turned to gaze at the point:  it was too true:  their leader had fallen; they had advanced too incautiously, and were therefore obliged to fall back.