aft of the other men who sent them into combat. Ragged and lean
and bearded, with the soil of the Crimea still upon them, the men of
Alma and Inkerman, of Balaclava and Sevastopol, marched through the
roaring citizen crowd and formed up in the Park. There were many men
of valour there--many who had earned as well as any other the mark
of honour which was that day to be bestowed; but opposite the bright
pavilion with the raised crimson dais on which the Queen was to take her
seat there was but a mere handful of the halt and maimed, upon whom the
eyes of the vast multitude, whether civil or military, were fixed. They
were no more than specks in the great open space--just so many little
coloured ants to the eye--and the gaze of the spectators gloated on
them. For they were Britain's chosen. These were the men of whom all
London had been reading with bated breath for well nigh three years
past. These were the men of Alma's heights and Balaclava's charge and
Inkerman's fog, and the frost of the trenches--the pick and pride of the
whole contingent which had gone out to do battle for England's honour.
That they had never been truly called upon to go made little if any
difference at that hour, for London was in the mood for hero-worship
rather than political criticism just then, and not the rudest judge of
British policy would have cared to speak a word against the ceremony of
the day.

And when, after long waiting, the royal carriage came, with the pretty,
smiling little matronly figure bowing and swaying amidst the ringing
thunders of the world's greatest city, and the bands rolled out their
'God Save the Queen' as she passed them one after another, one happy,
happy onlooker looked up at one war-hardened old veteran through tears.

'Upon my word,' said the General, with a grimace which was really much
less humorous than he meant it to be, and in a voice which was hardly as
steady as he would have liked to have it--'upon my word, Irene, I'd give
twopence to be in your shoes at this moment.'

For one of the scarlet ants in the far distance, on the green tablecloth
of the turf, was just then advancing towards the little figure on the
dais, and an instant or two later the Queen was stooping to pin the
bronze badge of honour to the coat of Polson Jervase.

THE END.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of VC -- A Chronicle of Castle Barfield
and of the Crimea, by David Christie Murray

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBE