on, advanced three
lines, one behind the other, the Highlanders and their stout leader,
Sir Colin Campbell.

It was only a passing glimpse, however, that our friends obtained.
Their leader knew that the fortunes of the day were still in doubt,
and that every man must throw his weight into the scale if victory was
to be assured.

The line was again ordered to advance. The slope was steeper now; they
were scaling, really, the heights themselves. Just above them yawned
the mouths of the heavy guns that had been dealing such havoc while
they were painfully threading the intricacies of the low ground.

"We must drive them out of that!" shouted old Blythe. "That battery
has been playing the mischief with us all along. Now, lads, shoulder
to shoulder; reserve your fire till we are at close quarters, then
give them the cold steel!"

The Royal Picts set up a ringing cheer in cordial response to their
chieftain's call. The cheer passed quickly along the line, and all
again pressed forward in hot haste, with set teeth, and bayonets at
the charge.

A withering fire of small arms met the Royal Picts as they approached
the battery; it was followed by the deafening roar of artillery; and
the murderous fire of the guns, great and small, nearly annihilated
the gallant band. Small wonder, then, that the survivors halted
irresolute, half disposed to turn back. Colonel Blythe was down. They
missed his encouraging voice; his noble figure was no more visible,
while his fine old white charger, riderless, his flanks streaming with
gore, was galloping madly down the hill. Many more officers were laid
low by this murderous discharge; amongst others, Anastasius Wilders
had fallen, severely wounded, and his blood had spurted out in a great
pool upon the colour he carried.

All this happened in less time than it takes to describe. It was one
of those moments of dire emergency, of great opportunity--suddenly
arising, gone as swiftly beyond recall, unless snatched up and dealt
with by a prompt, audacious spirit.

Young McKay saw it with the unerring instinct of a true soldier. He
acted instantaneously, and with bold decision.

Stooping over his prostrate cousin, who lay entangled amidst the folds
of the now crimson silk, he gently detached the colour, and, raising
it aloft, cried--

"Come on, Royal Picts!"

The men knew his voice, and, weakened, though not dispirited, they
gallantly responded to the appeal. Once more the line pressed fo