There are
murmurs of discontent running the ranks of the Light Brigade; it seems
as if _their_ chance was never coming. One of his intimates grumbles as
much to Royston Keene. The Cool Captain straightens a stray lock of his
charger's mane, and answers, with his old provoking smile,
"Don't fret yourself, George. I have a presentiment that we shall get
rid of the 'fidgets' before we sleep. See--_that_ looks like business."
It seemed as if a spirit of prophecy possessed him; for even while he
was speaking, the aide-de-camp came down at speed. There was a pause
while that message was delivered, the exact words of which will never be
known--for you can not summon the dead as witnesses; then a brief
hesitation, and a dozen sentences exchanged between the first and second
in command; and then--every trooper in the Brigade understood what he
had to do. Many drew true and evil augury from the cloud lowering on the
stern features of the "Haughty Earl."
Keene had been under fire oftener than most there, and his practiced eye
took in and appreciated every item of the peril; nevertheless, his brow
cleared, and all his face lighted up strangely.
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