Here, then, the cunning Indian had placed his army, burning to protect their native soil, where the steep banks of the river afforded a natural fortification. Here, most unfortunately, had the fugitives from Elephantum first emerged from the friendly shade of the forest into the open, fatal light of day. Thus again captives, they are led before the monarch. There, fearful of betraying their fatal secret, their confused answers arouse the suspicions of Porus, and by him they are committed to the care of the guards, to await through the long and anxious night the announcement of their fate on the morrow. Conscious that their pursuers must now overtake them, Ganga, now wholly despairing, refutes the empty consolation of Demetros. Wearied nature, however, asserts its sway—the worn-out fugitives pass the night in dull, dreamless sleep, in the camp of their enemies. * * * * * How goes the night? The clouds in the angry south-western sky announce the approach of the thunder. What picture do the winds behold as they cross to the farther shore of the Hydaspes? Is it a sleeping camp? It is the busy note of preparation—the bustle of a moving multitude—the tramp of soldiers moving toward the stream with steady step, unheeding the war of the elements and the clashing of steel upon steel, as they pass. It is the march of the Greeks. The great phalanx, now divided for secrecy, advances with quiet firmness to cross the stormy Hydaspes. Their skillful leader, taught by many campaigns, has chosen this tempestuous night, when the tumult of nature may drown the noise of the army. Perceiving the advantages of his adversary, he has thus determined to outwit him, and by crossing the dangerous river in secrecy and silence, to meet the enemy upon the level plains on the farther side of the stream. Occasional flashes of lightning are the only guides to their path. The rain patters upon the metal helmets of the infantry, and the war-mail of the horses. Snorting with terror, the animals are forced along by the governing will of their masters. The heavy peals of thunder roll through the sky like the rumbling of a thousand chariot-wheels, as they fly over the field of battle. The great host reaches the banks of the stream, which, roused by the storm, rages doubly threatening, chafing with white foam like the steed impatient of his rider. The affrighted horses start back from the leap into the boiling current, seething and hissing like the swift-winged flight of the loosened arrow. With hardly less of terror the soldiers recoil from the roaring waters, rolling sullen now in silence with vast depth, now rushing swiftly over some protruding rock vainly opposing their progress. Shame on the warriors who heedless of death when animated by the despair of defeat, or roused by the clamor of victory, now yield to the power of water! And will the great Polemarch, for whom Macedonia was too small, who sighed