and blaze away at random as fast as he could load; but the
clear, calm voices in the supernumerary rank, and the old habit of
discipline, held him in check.

"Steady, men:--Aim low--Fire a volley!"

Another moment, and the black mass with its waving banners and
glittering weapons disappeared in a burst of fire and smoke, as the
rifles spoke with a simultaneous crash. Again, and yet again, the
vivid sheet of flame flashed from the side of the square; then, through
the drifting fog, it was seen that the enemy were apparently changing
the direction of their attack. Falling in scores before the terrible,
scythe-like sweep of the volley firing, they swerved round the flank of
the square and burst furiously upon the rear.

[Illustration: "The enemy swerved round the flank of the square, and
burst furiously upon the rear."]

Rapid independent firing had succeeded the regular volleys, and Jack
was in the act of using his rifle, when he became conscious of a shock
and swaying movement, like the commencement of a Rugby scrimmage. He
turned, and saw in a moment what had happened: by sheer weight of
numbers, the overpowering rush of Arabs had forced back the thin line
of "Heavies," and a fierce hand-to-hand fight was in progress. What
had been the interior of the square was now covered with a confused
mass of struggling combatants, dimly seen through clouds of dust and
smoke. Desperate fanatics hacked and stabbed with their heavy swords
and long spears, while burly giants of the Guards returned equally
deadly strokes with butt and sword-bayonet. Shouts, cries, and words
of command mingled in a general uproar, half-drowned in the incessant
din of the firing.

How long this awful contest lasted, or exactly what happened, Jack
could never clearly remember. He was conscious that the rear rank had
turned about, and of a vision of "Swabs" standing like a man shooting
rabbits in a cover, with his rifle at his shoulder, waiting for a
chance of a clear shot. Turning again to his front, he noticed the
fellow on his right working frantically at his lever, and sobbing with
rage and excitement over a jammed cartridge-case. "Knock it out with
your cleaning-rod!" he yelled, and thrust another round into the breach
of his own weapon, determined, if this were the end, to make a hard
fight of the finish.

At length the pressure seemed to grow less, and then ceased; the enemy
wavered, then turned and began to slowly retreat, hesitati