It was now generally realised that the task of forcing a passage through the lane was hopeless, or at least inadvisable, for the present. Nicholson, however, would not concede this. Every inch of ground gained in Delhi that day was worth untold gold, and he determined that no effort should be spared to win the Lahore Gate. Placing himself at the head of his men, he called on them for another charge, for one last brave attempt. If there was one man whom the Fusiliers would have followed to death, it was Nicholson. At his summons they ran on again, some of them actually reeling from the terrific strain they had undergone. Springing out into the mouth of the lane, Nicholson waved his sword above his head and went forward. The soldiers advanced some paces, wavered, re-formed, and wavered again as the sepoys' guns belched forth flame and death. Then, as they paused hesitating, the fateful moment came. Some yards ahead of the soldiers stood Nicholson, facing his men as he called to them angrily to "come on." Suddenly a sepoy leaned out of the window of a house close by and pointed his musket at the tall, commanding figure beneath him. There was a flash, and on the instant Nicholson fell with a bullet in his back. [Illustration: "A sepoy leaned out . . . and pointed his musket at the tall figure beneath him."] Even then, lying mortally wounded, the dying lion refused to allow himself to be borne to the rear. "Carry the lane first," he ordered; but Colonel Graydon, who went to his assistance, persuaded him to let a bearer party lift him to one side. Thence, a little later, he was taken to a hospital tent to have his wound attended to. It was at this juncture that a young staff-officer, who is now Lord Roberts, found Nicholson in a dhoolie by the roadside just within the Cashmere Gate. The stricken hero had been deserted by the native bearers and left to his fate! Through Roberts' efforts a fresh party of bearers was obtained, and Nicholson was carried tenderly to the nearest field hospital. He was seen to be in great pain, besides being much exhausted from loss of blood, but hopes were entertained that his wound would not prove mortal. By the irony of fate, the occupant of another dhoolie, which was presently placed by his, turned out to be his brother Charles, whose arm had been shattered. The two had met again for the last time. From the field hospital Nicholson was shortly after conveyed to the Ridge, where nothing was left undone that could ease his suffering. Medical skill, however, was unavailing; he lingered until the 23rd of the month, and then passed peacefully away.