ith the leadership of his men.

What brought Nolan there? The inference is only fair and reasonable
that at the very outset he had recognised the misinterpretation of
Lord Raglan's orders, and was seeking to change the direction of the
charging horsemen, diverting them from the Russian battery towards the
redoubts, their proper goal.

Fate decreed that this last chance of correcting the terrible error
should be denied to the Light Brigade. A Russian shell struck Nolan
full in the chest, and "tore a way to his heart." By his untimely
death the doom of the light cavalry was sealed.

As the devoted band galloped forward to destruction, all who observed
them stood horror-stricken at the amazing folly of this mad, mistaken
charge.

"Great heavens!" cried Lord Raglan. "Why, they will be destroyed! Go
down, Calthorpe, and you, Burghersh, and find out who is responsible
for this frightful mistake!"

"Magnificent!" was the verdict of Bosquet, a friendly but experienced
French critic. "But it is not war."

Not war--murder, rather, and sudden death.

The ceaseless fire of the guns they faced wrought fearful havoc in the
ranks of the horsemen as they galloped on. Still the survivors went
forward, unappalled; but it was with sadly diminished numbers that they
reached the object of their attack. The few that got to the guns did
splendid service with their swords. The gunners were cut down as they
stood, and for the moment the battery was ours. But it was impossible to
hold it; the Light Brigade had almost ceased to exist. Presently its
shattered remnants fell slowly back, covered by the Heavies against the
pursuit of the once more audacious Russian cavalry.

Barely half an hour had sufficed for the annihilation of nearly six
hundred soldiers, the flower of the British Light Horse. The northern
valley was like a shambles, strewn with the dead and dying, while all
about galloped riderless horses, and dismounted troopers seeking to
regain their lines on foot. Quite half of the whole force had been
struck down, among the rest Hugo Wilders, whose forehead a grape-shot
had pierced.

The muster of regiments after such a fight was but a mournful
ceremony. When at length the now decimated line was re-formed, the
horror of the action was plainly seen.

"It was a mad-brained trick," said Lord Cardigan, who had marvellously
escaped--"a monstrous blunder, but it was no fault of mine."

"Never mind, my lord!" cried many gallant spiri