As the Sepoys moved on to the attack, the women, remembering the horrible scenes of Cawnpore, besought the men to save them from a fate worse than death, by killing them with a volley from their guns. The soldiers for the last time looked down the road whence the long-looked-for relief must come; but they saw no signs of Havelock and his troops. In despair they loaded their guns and aimed them at the waiting group; but suddenly all are startled by a wild, unearthly shriek from the sleeping Scotch girl. Starting upright, her arms raised, and her head bent forward in the attitude of listening, with a look of intense delight breaking over her countenance, she exclaimed: “Dinna ye hear it? Dinna ye hear it? Ay, I’m no dreamin’; it’s the slogan o’ the Highlanders! We’re saved, we’re saved!” Then, flinging herself upon her knees, she thanked God with passionate fervor. The soldiers were utterly bewildered; their English ears heard only the roar of artillery, and they thought poor Jessie still raving. But she darted to the batteries, crying incessantly to the men: “Courage! Hark to the slogan--to the Macgregor, the grandest of them a’! Here’s help at last!” For a moment every soul listened in intense anxiety. Gradually, however, there was a murmur of bitter disappointment, and the wailing of the women began anew as the colonel shook his head. Their dull Lowland ears heard nothing but the rattle of the musketry. A few moments more of this deathlike suspense, of this agonizing hope, and Jessie, who had again sunk to the ground, sprang to her feet, and cried in a voice so clear and piercing that it was heard along the whole line: “Will ye no believe it noo? The slogan has ceased, indeed, but the Campbells are comin’. D’ ye hear? D’ ye hear?” At that moment they seem to hear the voice of God in the distance, as the bagpipes of the Highlanders brought tidings of deliverance; for now there was no longer any doubt of their coming. That shrill, penetrating, ceaseless sound which rose above all other sounds could come neither from the advance of the enemy nor from the work of the sappers. Yes! It was indeed the blast of the Scottish bagpipes, now shrill and harsh as the threatening vengeance of the foe, then in softer tones seeming to promise succor to their friends in need. Never, surely, was there such a scene as that which followed. Not a heart in the residency of Lucknow but bowed itself before God. All by one simultaneous impulse fell upon their knees, and nothing was heard save bursting sobs and the murmured voice of prayer. THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. THEODORE O’HARA. THE muffled drum’s sad roll has beat The soldier’s last tattoo; No more on life’s parade shall meet That brave and fallen few. On Fame’s eternal camping-ground Their silent tents are spread, And glory guards with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead.