Down below at the bottom of the slope, about half a musket-shot from us, was a snug tiled farm with a hedge and a bit of an apple orchard.

All round it a line of men in red coats and high fur hats were working like bees, knocking holes in the wall and barring up the doors.
"Them's the light companies of the Guards," said the sergeant.

"They'll hold that farm while one of them can wag a finger.

But look over yonder and you'll see the camp fires of the French." We looked across the valley at the low ridge upon the further side, and saw a thousand little yellow points of flame with the dark smoke wreathing up in the heavy air.

There was another farm-house on the further side of the valley, and as we looked we suddenly saw a little group of horsemen appear on a knoll beside it and stare across at us.
There were a dozen Hussars behind, and in front five men, three with helmets, one with a long straight red feather in his hat, and the last with a low cap.
"By God!" cried the sergeant, "that's him! That's Boney, the one with the grey horse.