"He will," said Claude Boldre. "He as good as told me so when he sent me off with the Flamingoes."

Ted was all impatience to impart his great news, but modesty forbade him while the strangers were present. The two visitors having inspected the defences of the famous mansion, and criticised most favourably the appearance of the Rifles, Guides, and Gurkhas, took their departure.

"The general's told me that I'm to have the V.C., Alec," Ted whispered.

"Honour bright?"

Our ensign nodded.

"Congratulations, old man,--and I think you deserved it. Ensign Russell, V.C.!... Splendid, Ted!"

"What's that?" asked Jim, who had joined the group. "You're to have the V.C., young'un?"

Ted then related what had passed, and Charlie Dorricot thumped him violently in the small of the back.

"Well done, Ted!" he shouted excitedly. "I am glad; you deserve it, you cheeky little beggar!"

Ted being called away for a moment, Jim gravely observed:

"Well, I'm not so sure that I'm glad. He's having too much luck, and will be thinking no end of himself unless he's careful. Of course I'm very proud of him, but I'd have preferred him to win it a few years later."

"Oh, Ted's all right!" Charlie assured him. "He won't be spoiled. He's a sterling sort of kid."

At that moment the subject of the conversation returned, and a pause ensued before the elder brother spoke.

"Ted, I was just saying that I'm not quite sure whether I am very glad or not."

The ensign's face fell.

"You won't misunderstand me, old chap, or think I'm jealous, but you're very young, and too much luck is apt to turn our heads. I'm not saying that you didn't deserve it, but don't go about thinking that you're a very wonderful youngster, for there's many an ensign here would have done the same. If it makes you conceited, Ted, it will be a very bad thing for you ever to have won it. But if you're a man, and if you don't put on 'side', all of us will rejoice in your honours."

Ted was silent for a few moments, then held out his hand to his brother.

"I understand, old man; I know there are many who'd have done it, and perhaps done it better. I'll try to remember that."

"Well done, Ted!" cried his cousin. "I think you'll do, young 'un. Jim's rather inclined to preach, but he's all right."

Ted and Alec repaired to the Flagstaff Tower, the meeting-place of the British camp, situated on the Ridge about a mile north of the Gurkha picket, overlooking the artillery lines and the head-quarters camp, the latter being about half a mile farther to the north-west. From the Flagstaff Tower the road ran straight to the Kashmir Gate, and as the ground was high and the place well out of range, it was a favourite spot whence to gaze at the rebel town.

Ted was very thoughtful, and Alec very silent. The former's ardour had been damped by his brother's speech, and he wondered whether Jim really was jealous of his good fortune. He dismissed the idea as unworthy of Jim, whose honour and grit he appreciated fully. Still, it was rather a damper, and he could not help wishing that his brother had been less candid.

It was at the Flagstaff Tower that our friends of the Gurkha picket were accustomed to hear the news of the camp. There they learned of many deeds of valour; of the wonderful daring of Tombs of the Artillery, how he had rescued his equally brave subaltern, Hills, from certain death, and how he had had five horses shot under him already. "One almost every time he goes out," commented Ensign Collins of the 8th Foot. It was there they had heard of the arrival of Colonel Baird Smith, the chief engineer. "He's the man who'll take Delhi," a youngster of the "Cokeys"

had prophesied; and that lad was not far wrong.

But on this day the bearers of news from camp wore troubled looks. Some unwelcome tidings had evidently arrived since Ted's visit below.

"Anything wrong to-day?" Alec anxiously enquired.

"Cawnpore has fallen, and the black fiends have murdered the whole garrison, women and children too--the hell-hounds!"

Ted shuddered as he listened to the details of that awful butchery.

Edward Russell was a lad who had faults enough, but he had never been cruel. He would not needlessly torture the humblest of God's creatures, yet he felt, as he listened to the horrible tidings, that nothing would give him greater pleasure than the blowing up of Delhi and of every sepoy therein. Unhappily this red-hot indignation was nursed by many Englishmen until they forgot the traditions of their race.

The few hundred Englishmen in Cawnpore had been attacked by Dundu Pant, Rajah of Bithur, better known as the infamous Nana Sahib, a man who had posed as a civilized Asiatic, an imitator of the English. The garrison, composed of detachments of several regiments, of civilians, and of officers whose regiments had risen, was trapped in a position unsuited to a long defence. After a gallant stand, General Sir Hugh Wheeler was convinced that in another day or two all would be over, and for the sake of the women and children, who numbered more than three hundred, he agreed to make terms. Dundu Pant swore that if they would give up the entrenchment, the guns, and the treasure, he would have them all conveyed in boats down the Ganges to a place of safety. The black Mahratta's promises and protestations deceived them all, and they embarked. The boats were taken out into mid-stream, when suddenly a bugle blew; the boatmen sprang into the river, and from both banks lines of hidden sepoy marksmen began to pick off the betrayed Feringhis. Four Europeans escaped to tell the tale. The lucky ones were those who were killed by the bullets. Many were taken alive from the water, and of these the men were murdered at once; the women and children were led away to endure a captivity of more than a fortnight's duration. Hearing of Havelock's approach, Dundu Pant then performed the second act of the ghastly tragedy which has made his name world-infamous. The poor captives, numbering perhaps two hundred, were hacked to death, and their bodies thrown down a well.

Small wonder that British blood should boil over when the story was told; small wonder that the men of the 60th Rifles should shake their fists as they looked from the Ridge into the rebel capital, towards the distant palace and home of vice, and should vow vengeance on every faithless sepoy, be he Mohammedan like the King of Delhi or Hindu like the Mahratta rajah.

And Cawnpore was not the only scene of murder and outrage. The army before Delhi was cut off from Calcutta and the Gangetic provinces, and news did not come every day. But with the tale of the vilest tragedy of all came also the bad tidings from Allahabad, where the poor ensigns were foully murdered, from Benares and Jhansi, from Fyzabad, Shahjehanpur, and Dinapur. Right along the Ganges the provinces and towns seethed with mutiny and murder, regiment after regiment having risen against the alien; and Oudh, the kingdom from which the Native Bengal Army was chiefly recruited, was ablaze from one end to another, the people joining hands with the rebels in their hatred of the foreigners who had dethroned their wicked king.

There was one patch of blue in the lowering sky. Lucknow, the capital of Oudh, was holding out bravely. There the best and greatest and most loved man in India was holding the rebel troops at bay with his handful of Englishmen and a number of loyal sepoys, who thereby won everlasting honour. This was Sir Henry Lawrence, the elder brother of John Lawrence.

He it was who had pacified the Punjabis, and first taught the stout Sikhs and Pathans and Jats that Englishmen ruled for the benefit of the natives. He it was who gathered round him and trained that band of noble men who ruled the Punjab in such manner that Englishmen came to be respected and honoured and even loved by those who had hated the Feringhis most, a few years before. Men like his brother John, John Nicholson, Herbert Edwardes, and others who became famous as great soldiers and the best administrators the world has ever known--they were all proud to call themselves the disciples of Henry Lawrence. Henry Lawrence governed the Punjab as supreme ruler--as king, in fact, though not in name, when the Punjab was the most turbulent and unruly kingdom in Asia, and he had made it the best-governed. When he was called away his brother John had worthily filled his shoes, and but for the devotion and genius and goodness of heart of these two brothers, England might have lost India.

When the mutiny broke out, Henry Lawrence was Resident of Oudh. Had he been there a few years longer, the men of Oudh would not have entertained that hatred of the British which now filled their hearts, but his beneficent rule had hardly had time to make itself felt. He alone--though he sympathized with and loved the natives of India more than any other Englishman--had foreseen the possibility of the rising, and he had taken steps to meet it in Lucknow. Owing to his foresight and generalship the Residency had been fortified and provisioned, and when the rising took place all the Europeans were within the fort, and the mutineers raged furiously but in vain.

Our friends at Delhi learned that Havelock and Neill were leading a small column to the rescue of Lucknow, fighting every inch of the way.

Neill had been hastily summoned from Madras with his gallant regiment, and had already done splendid work. Lord Canning, the viceroy, had risen to the occasion. Without hesitating he had brought back Outram's Persia Expeditionary Force, and had courageously taken upon himself to stop at Colombo the ships which were taking troops to China, and divert them to Calcutta. China might wait, India could not.

In the Punjab the poorbeahs had shot their bolt and had missed. First Chamberlain and then Nicholson, with the movable column, were giving the rebels no rest, harrying them from one province to another, and punishing them severely.

It was not at the Flagstaff Tower, but at their own post that they heard the news that made each man feel as if he had lost a dear friend. Henry Lawrence was dead. Yes, one of the pillars of the empire had fallen, and even the roughest soldiers felt the shock.

"Ah, he was a man, he was!" murmured a rifleman. "We sha'n't see another like him."

A sergeant of the 60th gazed thoughtfully over the city.

"My two kids are in that asylum he built up at Sanawar," said he. "He was the sojer's friend. The kiddies 'ud have bin dead by now if it hadn't bin for 'im."

"You're right there," said another non-commissioned officer, shaking his head. "He's done more for us than any man. Who cared what became of the poor little beggars, whether they died like flies or not, till he raised the money for the asylums?"

"What asylums are them?" asked a young private.

"Have ye no' heard o' the Lawrence Asylums?" demanded a man from Lanark.

"They're built on the hills, whaur the air is as guid as at Rothesay, an' they're for the soldiers' bairns."

"Aye!" said the sergeant; "and though he was only a poor man for one in his position, they said he spent nearly all his salary in charity."

"Lucknow won't be long now he's dead," muttered another. "They can't hold out for ever, and the rebels are swarming round Havelock. He's had to fall back."

But Lucknow was not destined to fall.

"Well, I'm not a cruel man," muttered the young private, "but I could kill a few o' them sepoys with pleasure, the black-'earted villains!"

We may regret this longing for vengeance, but can we wonder at it? The men had heard of their comrades murdered in cold blood, of the women and children tortured and slain most barbarously, and their blood boiled at the outrages. Afterwards it was found that the tales of torture and cruelty had been exaggerated, and that the helpless women and children had been slain quickly and not after prolonged suffering. But even then matters were black enough to excuse the cries for vengeance. Many good and usually gentle men steeled their hearts at this time and gave no quarter to rebel soldiers, but let us thank God that there were many brave Englishmen--the Lawrences foremost among them--who forgave a great deal to the sepoys, and who took into account their temptations and their untamed nature, and who would much rather have won the rebels over by kindness than by slaughter had it been possible.

But that was not possible.

A number of the older soldiers of the Guides came up as the riflemen were still discussing the latest news. A veteran native officer, grief depicted on his weather-beaten countenance, addressed Captain Russell in tones of mingled sadness and anxiety.