at the swiftly charging Pathans who
rose out of the earth on his first shot at the man he had seen wriggling
to the cover of a stone. As he fired and shouted, the picket-sentry did
the same, and, within a minute of Horace's first shot, ten rifles were
levelled at the spot where the rushing silent fiends had disappeared.
Within thirty yards of them were at least half a dozen men--and not a
glimpse of one to be seen.

"I got one, fer keeps, any'ow," said Horace in the silence that followed
the brief racket; "I see 'im drop 'is knife an' fall back'ards...."

Perfect silence--and then ... _bang_ ... and a man standing beside
Horace grunted, coughed, and scuffled on the ground.

"Get down! Get down! You fools," cried Horace, who was himself standing
up. "Wha's the good of a square sungar if you stands up in it? All
magazines charged? It's magazine-fire if there's a rush."....

Silence.

"Fire at the next flash, all of yer," he said, "an' look out fer a
rush." Adding, "Bli' me--'ark at 'em dahn below," as a burst of fire
and a pandemonium of yells broke out.

A yellow glare lit the scene, flickered on the sky, and even gave
sufficient light to the picket on the hill-top to see a wave of wild,
white-clad, knife-brandishing figures surge over the edge of the hill
and bear down upon them, to be joined, as they passed, by those who had
sunk behind stones at the picket's first fire.

"Stiddy," shrilled Horace. "Aim stiddy at the b----s. _Fire_," and again
the charging line vanished.

"Gone to earf," observed Horace in the silence. "Nah look aht for
flashes an' shoot at 'em...."

_Bang!_ and Horace lost a thumb and a portion of his left cheek, which
was in line with his left thumb as he sighted his rifle.

Before putting his left hand into his mouth he said, a little
unsteadily:--

"If I'm knocked aht you go on shootin' at flashes and do magazine-fire
fer rushes. If they gets in 'ere, we're tripe in two ticks."

Then he fainted for a while, came to, and felt much better. "Goo' job
it's the left fumb," he observed as he strove to re-charge his magazine.
The dull thud of bullet into flesh became a frequent sound. The last
observation that Horace made to the remnant of his men was:--

"Bli' me! they're all rahnd us now--like flies rahnd a fish-barrer. Dam'
swine!..."

* * * * *

Firing steadily at the advancing mobs the street-end pickets retired on
the Prison and were admitted as the