One or two of his staff besought him to move a little further to the rear, but he met the suggestion with good-natured contempt.

“My lord rather likes being under fire than otherwise,” whispered one aide-de-camp to another.

He certainly took it uncommonly cool, and in the thick of it could unbend with kindly condescension when a sergeant who was passing had his forage-cap knocked off by the wind of a passing shot.

“A near thing that, my man,” he said, smiling.

The sergeant—­it was Hyde, returning from the Barrier, where he had been with more ammunition—­coolly dusted his cap on his knee, replaced it on his head, and then, formally saluting the Commander-in-Chief, replied with a self-possession that delighted Lord Raglan—­

“A miss is as good as a mile, my lord.”

Through all this the 18-pounders kept up a ceaseless and effective fire.  They were clearly of a heavier calibre than any the Russians owned, and soon the weight of their metal and our gunners’ unerring aim began to tell upon the enemy’s ranks.

The Russian guns were frequently shifted from spot to spot, but they could not escape the murderous fire.

At last, in truth, the Russian hold on Inkerman hill was shaken to the core.

Victory at last was in our grasp, and, but for the old and fatal drawback of insufficient numbers, the battle must have ended in a complete disaster for the Russian arms.  A vigorous offensive, undertaken by fresh troops, must have ended in the speedy overthrow, possibly annihilation, of the enemy.

But the only troops available for the purpose were the French.  Bosquet had now come up with his brigade, and D’Autemarre, released by Gortschakoff’s retreat, had followed with a second.  There were thus some seven or eight thousand French available.  Still Canrobert was disinclined to move.

He was now with Lord Raglan on the Ridge, with his arm in a sling, for he had just been struck by a shrapnel-shell.

He was downcast and dejected, for Bosquet had gone off on a wild-goose chase after two errant battalions, and had shared in their repulse.  Just now, indeed, so far from proving the saviours of the hard-pressed English, our French allies were themselves in retreat.

Lord Raglan strove to reassure his colleague.

“All is going well, my general,” he said; “we are winning the day.”

“I wish I could think so,” replied Canrobert.

“Well, but listen to the message my aide-de-camp has brought from General Pennefather.  What did he say, Calthorpe?”

“General Pennefather, my lord, says he only wants a few fresh troops to follow the enemy up now, and lick them to the devil.  These are his very words, my lord.”

Lord Raglan laughed heartily, and translated his stout-hearted lieutenant’s language literally for Canrobert.

“Ah! what a brave man!” cried the French general, lighting up.  “A splendid general, a most valiant man.”