he, "are fighting for the lives of their wives and children imprisoned yonder in the House of the Woman. They will not go on fighting like this for the mere satisfaction of" he paused a moment-"of burying them.”

Before judging Neill and his little band of avengers, let us see how this fiendish counsel was executed. On July 15, a boy and five men were brought out and shot in the presence of Nana Sahib, as he sat outside the commissariat warehouse. He then turned and sent orders to the guard to butcher the two hundred women and children, captives of his treachery. The guard refused to obey his order. Nana Sahib then summoned two Mohammedans and three Hindus, who armed themselves with short native swords, and in the low afternoon sun the infernal slaughter began, one of the butchers returning twice for a new sword.

Next morning the murderers returned, and one by one the bodies were dragged across the compound and thrown into the well. Some still lived, three or four children and a dozen women who had hidden under the corpses of their fellows. These were quickly cut down or thrown still living into the well, which was filled to within six feet of the top.

On the next day Neill crushed, drove, beat his fiery way into Cawnpore-O the pity of it!-twenty-four hours too late. A body of Highlanders flung themselves tempestuously through the emptying lanes of the House of the Woman. They tore open the doors of the compound, and at the word of command stood at attention. Their sergeant entered the house, and as the well began to betray its hideous secret, the sergeant came back. He was white in the face, but he came steadily up to his men holding in his hand the patch of a woman's scalp hacked off by a sword. Over the courtyard reigned the stillness of death.

Removing his helmet, the Scotch sergeant moved down the line, giving to each a finger-full of hair, with all the reverence that such a sacrament demanded; and as he ministered to each he said quietly, "One life for each hair before the sun sets!''

It is a horrible story, but horrible crimes can only be punished in a horrible way. Neill, transfigured with the fiery wrath of God, knew no pity, no mercy; and something of his own austerely religious nature filtered down through the rank and file. Every man who by act or acquiescence had participated in the butchery was swung from a gibbet, but not until he had cleaned with his tongue his allotted square inches of the blood-glued pavement.

Justice with a fearful hand! But the executioners believed that they were God's avengers.

241.

A SOLDIER OF FRANCE

It was all very well, the wonderful French army, all very well if one could be a marshal or a general or even a soldier of the line. But to be a drummer and to have for one's most important duty to drum the loungers out of a public garden! No, he would desert.

"But why?" said a grave voice beside him. "Why art thou thinking to desert? Art thou not a soldier of France?" The voice was very kind, the kindest that little Tapin had heard in three long months.

"Ah, yes!" he exclaimed bitterly. "What a thing it is to be a soldier of France!" And not even that, but a drummer who is called Little Tapin, because he is the smallest and weakest in the whole corps. Never to fight, but only to drive loafers out of the garden-that is what it is to be a soldier of France!

The other leaned forward and with one white-gloved hand touched Little Tapin kindly on the eyes.

Before them a great plain spread away to where in the dim distance peaks of a range of purple hills nicked and notched a sky of palest turquois. A wide road dazzling white in the sunshine swept before them in a superb

curve.

Suddenly a short, sharp bugle-note rang out, and instantly the air was full of the sound of hoofs, the ring of scabbards and stirrup irons. The wide white road before them was alive with flying cavalry. Squadron after squadron they thundered by, Mounted Chasseurs, Polish Light Horse, Old Guard Cavalry, Mamelukes, Red Lanciers in gay uniforms of green and scarlet, like a whirlwind they swept past.

Slowly the dust-cloud thinned and lifted, and the whole plain lay revealed. Silent, expectant, the legions stood there in broad swells of light and color. Then without warning, as if the touch of a magician's wand had aroused the multitude to life, a myriad of sabres swept twinkling from their scabbards, and by tens of thousands the guns of the infantry snapped with a sharp click to "present arms." The bugles sounded all along the line, the tri-colors dipped until their golden fingers almost swept the ground. The troopers stood upright in their stirrups, heads thrown back, bronzed faces tense, eyes blazing. From the furthest slopes inward like thunder that growls after a hoarse cry ran down the massed battalions and broke into a stupendous

roar,

"Vive l'empereur!"

Little Tapin rubbed his eyes.

"I am ill," he murmured. "I have been faint. I seemed to see-'

"Thou hast seen," said the voice of his companion. softly,-"thou hast seen what it is to be a soldier of France!"

The old man listened greedily. Though his sight had long since failed, his hearing was still acute, and the slightest sound penetrated to his glimmering intelligence. Camp must be broken. Life called them and the duties of life, not death. And he was very close to death now.

He bowed his head until the noise of the complaining snow had died away. Then his hand crept out to the small heap of wood beside him. It alone stood between him and the eternity that yawned in upon him. At last the measure of his life was a handful of faggots.

He did not complain. It was the way of life and it was just. It was the law of all flesh. Nature was not kindly to the flesh.

He placed his stick upon the fire, and resumed his meditations. It was the same with all things. The little tree-squirrel crawled away to die. When age settled upon the rabbit, it became slow and unable to escape its enemies.

For a long time he pondered upon the days of his youth, till the fire died down and the frost bit deeper. He replenished it with two sticks this time and gauged his grip on life by what remained.

For a while he listened to the silence. He strained his ears, his restless brain for a moment stilled. Not a stir, -nothing. He alone took breath in the midst of a great silence. Hark! What was that? A chill passed over his body. The familiar long-drawn howl broke the void, and it was close at hand. He saw the flashing forms of

gray, the lolling tongues, the slavered fangs. A cold muzzle thrust against his cheek, and his hand shot into the fire and dragged out a burning faggot.

Overcome by his fear of man, the brute retreated, raising a prolonged call to his brothers; and greedily they answered till a ring of crouching, jaw-slobbered forms was stretched round about.

He

The old man listened to the drawing in of this circle. He waved his fire-brand widely, and sniffs turned to snarls, but the panting brutes refused to scatter. dropped his blazing stick into the snow. It sizzled and went out. The circle grunted uneasily, but held its own, and he dropped his head wearily upon his knees. What did it matter after all? Was it not the law of life?

The sun, a lusty giant, gripped the edge of the eastern hills, and slowly dragged himself over their crests. Along an avenue of gaunt trees he passed to the outskirts of the village where, in the pen, behind high walls, the animals were kept. The keeper at the gate saw him coming and with a yawn pulled himself from his easy chair by the fire.

"Four o'clock and al-l-l's wel-1-1!" greeted his ears as he crept along the first row of cages. Inquisitively the sun peeped between the bars of this row of pens. They were singularly alike in size and shape and fittings -little boxes with grated doors; within, a bunk, a bench, and two buckets. As they lay there inert, the animals also looked singularly alike. Only when the sun touched them and they rolled on their backs, could he see the difference. Though each face was coarse and set, each bore a different brand. One was "Thug," another "Gambler," another "Thief."