rs, guns, muskets, planks, and
colours, lay indiscriminately among the pile of ruin. Four thousand
maunds, or three hundred and twenty thousand pounds of gunpowder, an
accumulation of years, were contained in this magazine. This was buried
in stone magazines, some hundreds of feet under the earth; and it was
supposed that the major part of the garrison had sought refuge in those
excavated vaults, from the destruction of our shells, and were there
entombed in this pile of ruin and desolation. The cries of men, women,
and children, and the groans of wounded horses, could be distinctly
heard, and drew from every eye the tear of pity. Our guns had ceased
firing, no one knew why. There were no shoutings of exultation; but, on
the contrary, loud were the expressions of commiseration and sorrow.
Amidst the convulsion, it was a most extraordinary fact, that the new
and scarcely finished temple of the inmates of the fort still reared its
superstitious head, and, on the very margin of their once boasted and
inexhaustible mine of powder and ball, stood uninjured amidst the
general wreck, divested only of its scaffolding. This coincidence, which
they, no doubt, attributed to supernatural agency, still fed their
deluded hopes, and they would not bend the stubborn knee and ask for
mercy, but still persisted in their resistance, led on by some
hoary-headed priest, who would not tear himself away from his ill-gotten
stores. The night closed in as cold as the hearts of these obdurate
creatures; the sky was serene and clear; and the moon rose in her most
effulgent brightness.

The moon had now risen high above the tops of Rumnah (a place where they
keep preserved game), when our guns re-opened, and more messengers of
destruction were sent to complete the work of death. Every hand employed
against the fort would willingly have carried these poor creatures the
cup of peace and the balm of comfort, rather than send them more woe;
but, notwithstanding these sympathetic feelings, there is a duty we owe
ourselves and our country. We were in honour bound to push the siege;
but this was our duty, not our inclination: nor is it true that
soldiers, inured to scenes of war, do not possess the nicer feelings of
the heart. The shelling again roared through their narrow streets, and
tore up their little dwellings by the roots, each hurling additional
victims into the gaping pile. About the hour of midnight, there seemed a
bustle and clashing of arms a