Colonel Blythe, with the Royal Picts, was one of the first men over.  He rode a snow-white charger, which he put bravely at the steep bank, and clambered up with the coolness of one who rode well to hounds.  He gained the top, and served as a rallying-point for the shattered remnant of his regiment, which there quickly re-formed with as much coolness and fastidious nicety as on a barrack-square at home.

They were under shelter here, and, pausing to recover breath, could look round and watch how the fight fared towards the left.

At this moment the Light Division had effected a lodgment in the great redoubt; but, even while they gazed, the Russian reserves were forcing back the too-presumptuous few.  Behind, a portion of the brigade of Guards was advancing to reinforce the wavering line and renew the attack.  Beyond, further on the left, in an echelon, advanced three lines, one behind the other, the Highlanders and their stout leader, Sir Colin Campbell.

It was only a passing glimpse, however, that our friends obtained.  Their leader knew that the fortunes of the day were still in doubt, and that every man must throw his weight into the scale if victory was to be assured.

The line was again ordered to advance.  The slope was steeper now; they were scaling, really, the heights themselves.  Just above them yawned the mouths of the heavy guns that had been dealing such havoc while they were painfully threading the intricacies of the low ground.

“We must drive them out of that!” shouted old Blythe.  “That battery has been playing the mischief with us all along.  Now, lads, shoulder to shoulder; reserve your fire till we are at close quarters, then give them the cold steel!”

The Royal Picts set up a ringing cheer in cordial response to their chieftain’s call.  The cheer passed quickly along the line, and all again pressed forward in hot haste, with set teeth, and bayonets at the charge.

A withering fire of small arms met the Royal Picts as they approached the battery; it was followed by the deafening roar of artillery; and the murderous fire of the guns, great and small, nearly annihilated the gallant band.  Small wonder, then, that the survivors halted irresolute, half disposed to turn back.  Colonel Blythe was down.  They missed his encouraging voice; his noble figure was no more visible, while his fine old white charger, riderless, his flanks streaming with gore, was galloping madly down the hill.  Many more officers were laid low by this murderous discharge; amongst others, Anastasius Wilders had fallen, severely wounded, and his blood had spurted out in a great pool upon the colour he carried.

All this happened in less time than it takes to describe.  It was one of those moments of dire emergency, of great opportunity—­suddenly arising, gone as swiftly beyond recall, unless snatched up and dealt with by a prompt, audacious spirit.

Young McKay saw it with the unerring instinct of a true soldier.  He acted instantaneously, and with bold decision.