ABSTRACT
What followed can best be imagined. But as I walked about the sun-baked trap today I saw the rebels bolt from the summit of the walls and race for the great gate. Too late, the 53rd and others were already there, pouring in to cut o all retreat. e sepoys doubled, tore to the summer-house, zigzaging like hares and falling like wounded rabbits before the hail of encircling shot and steel. I saw the “Quaker,” a man of the 93rd, so called owing to his quietness, charge across the garden, drunk with blood and the memories of Cawnpore; I heard him chant his Scottish hymn, punctuating each line by a death thrust of his dripping bayonet:
