had forgotten that." And then in his customary firm way, he said,
"The reserve supply of ammunition is in the little magazine, men.
Twelve volunteers to bring it out."

A deathly silence for a few minutes, only broken by the terrible crackle
and roar of the flames; and then my father stepped toward the blazing
building.

"I am too much hurt to carry," he said, "but I will lead. Now, my lads,
for Old England!"

"Hurray!" shouted Morgan, darting to his side, "and bonny Cymrw."

A great black figure with torn and scorched cotton garments was the next
to step forward, and, carried away by a strange feeling of enthusiasm
which mastered the horrible dread I felt, I ran to my father's side.

"No, no, no, my boy," he groaned. "Go back!"

"With you, father," I said; and he uttered a sob as he grasped my hand.

"God be with us!" I heard him whisper; and he said no more, but halting
and resting wearily on me, as a dozen men now came forward with a cheer,
he led the way to the door of the blazing pile.

Twice over I felt my legs tremble beneath me, but the tremor passed away
in the excitement, and with the flames seeming to roar more fiercely, as
if resenting an attempt to save that which was their prey, we passed
from the eye-aching blaze of light through the strong doors into the
black darkness of the fort, all reeking with smoke and steam.

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

I often sit back in my chair pondering about those old days, and
thinking about them in a very different way to that in which I looked
upon them then. For to be quite frank, though something in me kept
tugging me on, and seeming to say to me, "Be a man; go bravely on and
support your poor lame, suffering father, who is going to risk his life
to save the poor people around!" there was something else which would
keep suggesting that I might be killed, and that I should see the bright
sunshine no more; that I was bidding farewell to everything; and I know
I felt as if I would have given the world to have heard him say, "Go
back. It is too dangerous for you."

But he only hesitated a few moments, and then, as I have said, he
grasped my shoulder as if glad of my help, and went on into the great
dark place.

On thinking over these things, I often tell myself that though my father
may not have been a hero--and I don't believe much in heroes myself--I
know they do brave deeds sometimes; but I have often found that they
have what an American friend from the