The man who came to meet him was a soldier too, but of a different type, cast in another mould—­a Frenchman, emotional, easily excited, quick in gesture, rapid-speaking, with a restless, fiery eye.  St. Arnaud, too, had long tried the fortunes of war.  His was an intrepid, eager spirit, but he was torn and convulsed with the tortures of a mortal sickness, and at times, even at this triumphant hour, his face was drawn and pale with inward agony.

They were near enough, these supreme chiefs, for their conversation, or parts of it, to be heard around.  But they spoke in French, and few but McKay understood the purport of all they said.

“I am ready to advance at any moment,” said Lord Raglan.  “I am only waiting for the development of your attack.”

“Bosquet started an hour ago, but he has a tremendous climb up those cliffs.”

It was General Bosquet’s business to assault the left of the Russian position, strong in natural obstacles, and almost inaccessible to troops.

At this moment an aide-de-camp ventured to ride forward to his general’s side, and said—­

“Do you hear that firing, my lord?  I think the French on the right are warmly engaged.”

“Are they?” replied Lord Raglan, doubtfully; “I can’t catch any return fire.”

“In any case,” observed St. Arnaud, quickly, “it is time to lend him a hand.  The Prince Napoleon and Canrobert shall now advance.”

“The sooner the better,” said Lord Raglan, simply; “I must wait till their attack is developed before I can move.”

“You shall not wait long, my friend.”

The next instant the French mounted messengers were scouring the plain.  St. Arnaud paused a moment, then, gathering up his reins, he put spurs to his horse and galloped away, saluted as he went by a loud and hearty cheer.

The sound must have gladdened the heart of the gallant Frenchman, for he promptly reined in his horse, and, rising in his stirrups, responded with a loud “Hurrah for Old England!” given in ringing tones, and in excellent English.  Then, still followed by cheers, he went on his way.

It is but poor fun waiting while others begin a great game—­poor fun and dangerous too, as the English line presently realised, while they looked impatiently for the order to advance.  The Russian gunners had got their range, and were already plying them with shot and shell.  At the first gun, fired evidently at the British staff, Lord Raglan, as cool and self-possessed as ever, turned to General Wilders, and said, briefly—­

“Your men had better lie down.”

“May I not cast loose cartridges first, my lord?” said the old soldier, anxious to prepare for the serious business of the day.

“With all my heart!  But be quick; they must not stand up here to be shot at for nothing.”  Then Lord Raglan himself, erect and fearless, resumed his observation of the advancing French columns.