ur. They were soon among
the guns--the very guns that had annoyed them from the first--and
Charles, and two or three others known to him, were hunting some Russian
artillerymen round these guns for a minute or so.

He saw also at this time a friend of his--a cornet--on foot, and rode to
his assistance. He caught a riderless horse, and the cornet mounted.
Then the word was given to get back again, and as they turned their
faces to get out of this terrible hell, poor Charles gave a short, sharp
scream, and bent down in his saddle over his horse's neck.

It was nothing. It was only as if one were to have twenty teeth pulled
out at once. The pain was over in an instant. His left arm seemed nearly
dead, but he could hold his reins in a way. He saw Hornby before him,
and his own friends were beside him again, and there was a rally and a
charge. At guns? No. At men this time--Russian hussars--right valiant
fellows, too. He could do but little himself. He rode at a Russian, and
unhorsed him; he remembers seeing the man go down. They beat them back,
and then turned and rode--for it was time.

As the noise of the battle grew fainter behind them, he looked around to
see who was riding beside him and holding him by the right arm. It was
the little cornet. Charles wondered why he did so.

"You're hard hit, Simpson," said the cornet. "Never mind. Keep your
saddle a little longer. We shall be all right directly."

Charles looked down, and noticed that his left arm was hanging numbed by
his side, and that a trooper was guiding his horse.

Soon they were among English faces, and English cheers rang out in
welcome to their return, but it was nothing to him; he kept his eye,
which was growing dim, on Hornby, and when he saw him fall off his
saddle into the arms of a trooper, he dismounted, too, and staggered
towards him.

The world seemed to go round and round, and he felt about him like a
blind man. But he found Hornby somehow. Presently a doctor was bending
over him.

Later, they found Hornby dead and cold, with his head on Charles's lap.
Charles had been struck by a ball in the bone of his arm, and the
splinters were driven into the flesh, though the arm was not broken. It
was a nasty business, said the doctors. All sorts of things might happen
to him. Only one thing was certain, and that was that Charles
Ravenshoe's career in the army was over for ever.

At home they all believed him dead, for William had traced him to Varna