The rite of the Johur was now determined on. The whole garrison, amounting to five thousand, three having already perished, were assembled. The governor’s widow told them that the last effort was to be made. Nothing remained between subjugation and death. They heard her without a murmur, but with that profound silence which, in a multitude, betokens an inviolable unity of purpose, and began to assume the saffron robe. They were soon prepared to sally from the gate. Peirup Singh was among them. He looked defiance but spoke not. Their swords gleamed in the sun. The stern Rajpootni gazed with a glancing eye of pride, as she beheld the brave band going forth to the sacrifice, knowing that their swords would be steeped in the blood of their foes. She waved her hand when all were ready; the gates were thrown open and they marched forth to the fatal conflict. Their shouts were deafening as they pushed forward like a living deluge. The Moguls knew what they had to expect from the desperate valour of these devoted soldiers. The onset was terrific. Death followed everywhere in the track of those unshrinking assaulters. There was no quarter accepted. The moment a Rajpoot was taken prisoner he fell upon his own sword. The carnage among the Mahomedans was dreadful. They fell by hundreds before the swords of those infuriated men who had devoted themselves to destruction. The Hindoos fought against an enemy more than five times their number with a determination that spread consternation through the Mahomedan ranks. Even Akbar was amazed. He appeared in person in the thickest of that awful struggle, and was twice wounded by a Rajpoot sabre: but his armour protected his life, and the half naked bodies of his foes exposed them to the invincible force of his sword. For several hours the sanguinary strife continued, until almost every Rajpoot was slain. Upwards of two thousand Mahomedans were left dead upon the field, and full twice that number wounded. The brave Hindoos had raised a memorable trophy round their bodies never to be forgotten. Akbar visited the field of carnage. He was astonished at the impetuous and unflinching valour displayed by the foe. He dropped a tear as his eye glanced over the field covered with slain. He had obtained a dearly bought victory. It was evident that had the enemy met him upon equal terms, with them would have remained the honours of triumph. The sacrifice had indeed been great, but the victory was complete. As soon as the wasted energies of his troops should be recruited he determined to make an assault upon the town if the terms which he was disposed to offer were rejected. Among the few Rajpoots who had survived the carnage of that sanguinary day was Peirup Singh. He sought the lovely Kherla Nuny, hoping that she would fly with him from peril to happiness, but it was evident he knew her not.