Surely a battle was close at hand.  But nothing came of this demonstration.  Why, was not quite clear, till Hugo Wilders, who was a captain in the Royal Lancers, came galloping by, and exchanged a few hasty words with the general, his cousin Bill.

“What’s up, Hugo?” The general was riding just in front of the Royal Picts, and his words were heard by many of the regiment.

“Just fancy! we were on the point of having a brush with the Cossacks, when Lord Raglan came up and spoiled the fun.”

“Do you know why?”

“Yes; I heard him talking to our general—­I am galloping, you know, for Lord Cardigan, who was mad to be at them, I can tell you, but he wasn’t allowed.”

“They were far too strong for you; I could see that myself.”

“That’s what Lord Raglan said.  As if any one of us was not good enough for twenty Russians!  But he was particularly anxious, so I heard him say, not to be drawn into an action to-day.”

“No doubt he was right,” replied old Wilders.  “Only it can’t be put off much longer.  Unless I am greatly mistaken, to-morrow we shall be at it hammer and tongs.”

“I hope I shall be somewhere near!” cried Hugo, gaily.  “But where are the Royal Picts?  Oh! here!  I want to give Anastasius good-day.”

He found his younger brother was carrying the regimental colours, and the two young fellows exchanged pleasant greetings.  It was quite a little family party, for just behind, in the centre of the line, stood Sergeant-major McKay, the unacknowledged cousin.  How many of these four Wilders would be alive next night?

No doubt a battle was imminent.  It was more than possible that there would be a night attack, so both armies bivouacked in order of battle, ready to stand up in their places and fight at the first alarm.

But the night passed uneventfully.  At daybreak the march was resumed, and the day was still young when the allies came upon what seemed a position of immense strength, occupied in force by the Russian troops.

It was a broad barrier of hills, at right angles with the coast, lying straight athwart our line of march.  The hills, highest and steepest near the water’s edge, were still difficult in the centre, where the great high road to Sebastopol pierced the position by a deep defile; beyond the road, slopes more gentle ended on the outer flank in the tall buttresslike Kourgane Hill.  All along the front ran a rapid river, the Alma, in a deep channel.  Villages nestled on its banks—­one near the sea, one midway, one on the extreme right; and all about the low ground rich vegetation flourished, in garden, vineyard, and copse.

These were the heights of the Alma—­historic ground, hallowed by many memories of grim contest, vain prowess, glorious deeds, fell carnage, and hideous death.

“We are in for it now, my boy,” whispered Sergeant Hyde, who was one of the colour-party, and stood in the centre of the column, near McKay.