ir pallet beds behind him seemed to
give him the force of ten men. 'They shall pass only over my body! God
save my poor fellows!' was his inward cry, as he blocked up the narrow
doorway and struck at his dusky foes like a madman.

More than one poor lad lived to look back on that day, and to bless
their gallant deliverer. 'No one else could have done it, sir,' observed
one of them; 'but the Captain never knew how to give in. I was watching
them, and I thought the devils would have finished him. He staggered
back once, and Bob Jaggers gave a groan, for we thought it was all up
with us; and though I would have made shift to fight before I would be
killed like a rat in a hole, one could not do much with a broken arm.
When our men rushed in, he was pretty nearly finished; one of the
savages had him by the knees. Of course they gave him the Cross. For the
matter of that, he ought to have had it before.

'Did you ever hear how he saved little Tom Blatchley's life? Well, I
will tell you'; and hereupon followed one of those touching incidents
which are so frequent, and which gild with glory even the bloody annals
of war.

Yes, they gave him the Victoria Cross; but as he lay on his bed of
suffering, disabled by cruel wounds, Michael knew that he had won it at
the expense of all that men count dear. 'Greater love hath no man than
this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.' There were times
when, in his anguish, Michael could have prayed that his life--his
useless, broken life--might have been taken too. How gladly, how
thankfully would he have yielded it! how willingly would he have turned
his face to the wall, and ended the conflict, sooner than endure the far
bitterer ordeal that lay before him! for he was young, and he knew his
career was ended, and that, brave soldier as he was, he could no longer
follow the profession that he loved. It was doubtful for a long time how
far he would recover from the effects of that terrible night; his wounds
were long in healing. The principal injuries were in the head and thigh.
One or two of his physicians feared that he would never walk again; the
limb seemed to contract, and neuralgic pains made his life a misery. To
add to his troubles, his nerves were seriously affected, and though he
was no coward, depression held him at times in its fell grip, and mocked
him with delusive pictures of other men's happiness. Like Bunyan's poor
tempted Christian, he, too, at times espied a foul