As for ourselves, the English were almost at the end of their resources.  There were no fresh troops to bring up; only the Third Division remained in reserve, and it was fully occupied in guarding the trenches.

The French, it is true, could have thrown the weight of many thousands into the scale; but General Canrobert had not set his more distant divisions in motion, and the only troops that could affect the struggle—­Bosquet’s—­were still far to the rear.

In the contest that was now to be renewed the balance between the offensive forces was more than ever unequal.

Dannenberg gathered together upon the northern slopes of Mount Inkerman some 17,000 men, partly those who had been already defeated, but were by no means disheartened, and partly perfectly fresh troops.  On the other hand, Pennefather’s force was reduced to a little over 3,000, to which a couple of French regiments might now be added, 1,600 strong.  The Russians had a hundred guns in position; the allies barely half that number.

Yet in the struggle that was imminent the battle of Inkerman was practically to be decided.

The Russian general had now resolved to make a concentrated attack in column upon Pennefather’s Ridge.  He sent up another great mass from the quarry ravine, flanked and covered by crowds of skirmishers.  In the centre, the vanguard pressed forward swiftly, drove back the slender garrison of the Barrier, and advanced unchecked towards the Ridge.  There were no English troops to oppose their advance; a French battalion only was close at hand, and they seemed to shrink from the task of opposing the foe.

“They do not seem very firm, these Frenchmen,” said Lord Raglan, who was closely watching events.  “Why, gracious goodness, they are giving way!  We must strengthen them by some of our own men.  Bring up the 55th—­they have re-formed, I see.  Stay! what is that?”

As he spoke, an English staff officer was seen to ride up to the wavering French battalion.  From his raised hand and impassioned gestures he was evidently addressing them.  He was speaking in French, too, it was clear, for his harangue had the effect of restoring confidence in the shaken body.  The battalion no longer stood irresolute, but advanced to meet the foe.

“Excellently done!” cried Lord Raglan.  “Find out for me at once who that staff-officer is.”

An aide-de-camp galloped quickly to the spot, and returned with the answer—­

“Mr. McKay, my lord, aide-de-camp to General Wilders.”

“Remember that name, Airey, and see after the young fellow.  But where is his general?”

“Wounded, and gone to the rear, my lord,” was the reply.

The bold demeanour of the French battalion restrained the advancing enemy until some British troops could reach the threatened point.  Then together they met the advance.  The Russian attack was now fully developed, and his great column was well up the slopes of the ridge.  While the French, animated by the warm language of Pennefather, stopped its head, a mad charge delivered by a small portion of the 55th broke into its flank.