The hour of struggle was near—the pibroch burst upon the ears of the troopers, and up they started.
"Here they come," cried one.—"Here they come," cried another—"the gallant 42nd; look at the petticoat-devils, how they foot it along!"
All stood on the highest part of the ground, to witness the arrival of the troops, who were now within a quarter of a mile of them on the main road. A hum arose. Belgian officers galloped down the road, and across the fields in all directions; the duke was seen riding towards his expected soldiers, and the scene was life at all points. The pibroch's sound grew louder; and now the bands of the more distant regiments were heard; and the harmonious bugles of the rifle corps, mingled their sounds with the others. The long red line of Britons is fully before the sight, like a giant stream of blood on the ripe and mellow bosom of the earth. Picton is at its head, and the duke greets the heroic partner of his glory. The first of the regiments passes close to the troopers, and receives a cheer from them, which found a return in the relaxing muscles of the hardy Scots.
"What corps is that?" inquired one of the group.
"The Royal Highlanders, the 42nd—don't you see they are turned up with blue and gold?" replied another.
"And what's this with the yellow facings?"
"The old 92nd."
"And the other Scotch regiment, with the green and gold?"
"The 79th; three as good kilted corps as ever crossed the Tweed. And there's the 95th rifle boys, as green as the wood they are going to take. And there see the 28th,—and the 44th,—and the 32nd;—that's Picton's division; a glorious set of fellows as ever slept."
"And who are the fellows all in black?"