For a time it was not known in the British camp that the enemy had evacuated the pa. The frantic yells had died away—no sound was heard to disturb the stillness of the night. Tempted by the long-continued silence, Major Greaves, of the 70th, stole up to the ditch, mounted the breach, and found the pa empty. Returning to camp, he reported what he had seen, but no attempt was made to enter the pa till daybreak. The enemy had fled, carrying their wounded with them. Colonel Booth was still alive, but the surgeon told him that his hours were numbered. He was borne to the camp, where he survived till the following day. Before his death he was visited by General Cameron. “I endeavoured, sir, to carry out your orders; I am sorry that I have failed. I at least tried to do my duty.” “You have done so nobly,” was the general’s reply, as he pressed the hand of the dying soldier, in whose breast the sense of duty was stronger than the love of life. It is pleasing to record the virtues of men who, in this inglorious warfare, have gone down to the grave unwept, unhonoured, and unsung, because England takes little interest in a war with savages, and dismisses the subject for others more attractive. The other dead or dying officers were removed from the pa. Captain Hamilton, of the 43rd, breathed only once after his body was found. A bullet had passed through his head, and so altered his features that it was difficult to recognise the handsome face with which we were once so familiar. We had known him years ago in the East, when he was an ensign in the 10th Regiment. During the interval he had served throughout the whole of the Indian campaign, and followed Havelock to Lucknow. He belonged to a race of soldiers, and was every inch a soldier himself. Poor Hamilton! we think of him still as he sat at the mess-table, expatiating on the capture of Lucknow, or some cognate subject, to a group of admiring ensigns who loved him for the dangers he had passed. He served in the 10th Regiment with the present Sir Henry Havelock, now on the staff in New Zealand, who always spoke of him with respect as a gallant soldier, and betrayed the deepest sorrow on learning that he had fallen.