We may regret this longing for vengeance, but can we wonder at it? The men had heard of their comrades murdered in cold blood, of the women and children tortured and slain most barbarously, and their blood boiled at the outrages. Afterwards it was found that the tales of torture and cruelty had been exaggerated, and that the helpless women and children had been slain quickly and not after prolonged suffering. But even then matters were black enough to excuse the cries for vengeance. Many good and usually gentle men steeled their hearts at this time and gave no quarter to rebel soldiers, but let us thank God that there were many brave Englishmen--the Lawrences foremost among them--who forgave a great deal to the sepoys, and who took into account their temptations and their untamed nature, and who would much rather have won the rebels over by kindness than by slaughter had it been possible. But that was not possible. A number of the older soldiers of the Guides came up as the riflemen were still discussing the latest news. A veteran native officer, grief depicted on his weather-beaten countenance, addressed Captain Russell in tones of mingled sadness and anxiety. "Is it true, Captain Sahib, that Henry Larens is dead? Tell us it is false." Jim's voice faltered. Henry Lawrence had been the hero he had worshipped. "It is true," said he, simply. "I would have given my life to save his, sahib," said the old Sikh. "His was the brain that raised the Corps of Guides, and he it was who gave me my commission. Oh, my brothers, a great man is dead! Let us go and mourn for Larens Sahib." The veteran drew his sword and shook it at the sepoys on the walls. "Wait a little while," he added, "and there will be many mourners in that den of jackals." The heat was now terrible--a torture that could not be imagined by the people at home; that took the life and energy from the strongest, while as for the others--well, they must suffer the fate of the weak. In the daytime the pitiless Indian sun blazed down upon them, awful in its power and wrath, and at night they gasped for air, and choked, and cursed, or grimly joked, or called upon God, according to their nature. Ted Russell, healthy and in good condition, with no superfluous flesh, suffered less than most. He had one slight attack of cholera in the early days of July. One day, having been on duty all night, he lay within the house, in little more than bathing-costume, vainly trying to snatch an hour's sleep, for the Mori guns were hard at work. Overhead the sky was of a uniform deep-blue, broken only by the mass of fire almost directly above, and by the haze along the horizon. As if by magic, the thundering of the guns from the Delhi bastions ceased, and the well-known strains of our National Anthem were wafted by the south wind from the Mogul city. "'God Save the Queen!'" gasped Ted. "What's the meaning of that?"