their regimental parade to take up their appointed place, Yorke scans the miscellaneous company of equestrians and occupants of carriages assembled by the saluting-flag, looking in vain for the one object which makes the review, and life generally, interesting to him. "Here she comes at last," he said to himself, with a flutter at his heart, as he descried three riders cantering across the plain from the direction of the city. Even at this distance he can distinguish them — the commissioner and Colonel Falkland, each riding a big horse, and Miss Cunningham on her little high-bred chestnut Arab between them. But now the 76th wheel into their place; and our subaltern in the hindmost company finds his view for the present limited by the backs of the rear-rank of number eight.
Presently there is a stir, and the line is called to attention, the word of command being repeated by acting brigadiers, and again by commanders of battalions. It is evident that the eminent personage and his staff are coming on the ground; but Yorke can see nothing. Then the word is given to present arms, while the bands strike up, very improperly, the national anthem. Then there is a tedious pause for all in the rear: the eminent personage, accompanied by the brigadier and staff, is riding down the line from right to left. There is perfect silence through the ranks, broken only by the occasional move of a battery-horse shaking its harness. Peeping to his left, Yorke gets a momentary glimpse of the different cavaliers as they pass along the field of view of the little lane between his regiment, which is on the left of the infantry, and the adjacent field-battery. First, various staff-officers, singly or in couples; then the eminent personage on a big English horse, the brigadier on his Cabulee cob ambling by his side, and looking up in conversation; then a motley group of other staff-officers, including the happy holders of acting appointments for the day. Among these are three or four ladies, one of whom Yorke recognizes in his momentary view as plainly as if he had been looking for an hour. Miss Cunningham riding between two men in plain clothes, one in a round hat, the other strong and erect, wearing a sun-helmet. And now the cavalcade having reached the end of the line, turns round the flank of the field-battery, and begins to return by the rear, the eminent personage as he rides along at a foot-pace regarding intently the backs of the men as if the spectacle afforded him the deepest interest. Our subaltern of course can see nothing, for he must needs look straight to his front; but soon the sound of voices and subdued laughter announces that the tail of the equestrian party is passing behind him, and he feels the hardness of the fate which keeps him a mere dust-crusher, while so many other fellows are enjoying themselves on horseback; still more at not knowing whether Miss Cunningham even so much as saw him. Just at this moment two artillery-horses, tired of standing at attention, took to fighting and kicking, and the challenge being taken up by several others, a sensible commotion was caused in the cavalcade; and, hearing a little feminine scream, Yorke could not resist looking round. The cry had proceeded from Miss Peart, whose country-bred pony, with the combative habits of its race, had replied to the challenge by kicking out at the beast next to it, which happily being that of Mr. Lunge, the riding-master of the hussars, a gaunt and lofty animal, had kept its rider's legs beyond range of the pony's heels; but the commotion had set Miss Cunningham's lively chestnut Arab a-prancing, and Yorke had just time to notice the grace with which it's rider kept her seat.
And now begins the serious business of the day. First, the horse-artillery and cavalry canter to the front, and the former open a hot fire on an imaginary enemy; soon the latter is found to be in force, the guns are retired, and the infantry advance into action, the first brigade leading with skirmishers in advance, the second brigade in column in reserve. The said skirmishers advance in approved form, running forward a little way at the rate of about three miles an hour, then lying down and firing; and the parade being as flat as a billiard-table, without any cover or irregularity of surface as large as a walnut, this proceeding is by general consent pronounced to be a most vivid representation of the realities of war. Then of a sudden the enemy is supposed to disappear from the front, and appear simultaneously on the right flank, a transformation which naturally involves a change of front on the part of our side — a favourite manœuvre of the brigadier in fact, executed in his best style. And now the force, its unprotected left flank pointing in the direction towards which it had just been fighting, goes to work again in the same approved style — skirmishers lying down, the sup-
