ly. "He is very long about
it."

"There is no time to lose, my lord," interposed the
quartermaster-general, who had been intently watching the redoubts
with his field-glasses. "I can see them bringing teams of horses into
the redoubts. They evidently mean to carry off our guns."

The necessity for action was more than ever urgent and immediate.

"Lord Lucan must be made to move. Here, Airey! send him a peremptory
order in writing."

The quartermaster-general produced pencil and paper from his
sabretash, and wrote as follows:--

"Lord Raglan wishes the cavalry to advance rapidly to the front, and
try to prevent the enemy from carrying away the guns. Immediate."

"That will do," said Lord Raglan. "Let your own aide-de-camp carry the
order. He is a cavalry officer, and can explain, if required."

It was Nolan, the enthusiastic, ardent, devoted cavalry soldier, heart
and soul, and overflowing now with joy at his mission, and the chances
of distinction it offered the cavalry. A fine, fearless horseman, he
galloped at a breakneck pace down the steep and rocky sides of the
plateau, and quickly reached Lord Lucan's side.

The general read his orders, with lips compressed and lowering brow.

"You come straight from Lord Raglan? But, surely, you are General
Airey's aide-de-camp?"

"Lord Raglan himself entrusted me with the message."

"I can't believe it. It is utterly impracticable: for any useful
purpose. Quite unequal, quite inadequate, to the risks and frightful
loss it must entail."

The impetuous aide-de-camp showed visible signs of impatience. While
the general debated and discussed his orders, instead of executing
them with instant, unquestioning despatch, a great opportunity was
flitting quickly by.

"Lord Raglan's orders are"--Nolan spoke with an irritation that was
disrespectful, almost insubordinate--"his lordship's orders are that
the cavalry should attack immediately."

"Attack, sir!" replied Lord Lucan, petulantly; "attack what? What
guns?"

"There, my lord, is your enemy," replied Nolan, with an excited wave
of his arm; "there are your guns!"

The exact meaning of the gesture no man survived to tell, but its
direction was unhappily towards a formidable Russian battery which
closed the gorge of the north valley, and not to the heights crowned
by the captured redoubts.

Lord Lucan, heated by the irritating language of his junior officer,
must have lost his power of discrimination, for although