“Cheer, Boys, Cheer,” still sounded in their ears, when the word of command was given to “charge.” Away they went with that mad rush which nothing could withstand. Right on to the muzzles of the guns they sped, the General’s aide-de-camp, his noble son, Harry, leading the way. The battery was carried; the enemy was shattered, and fled in confusion; and as their own guns were turned upon them, and a terrific fire opened, the English band struck up “Cheer, Boys, Cheer.” Night fell--the British bivouacked two miles from Cawnpore. They were too weary to need a pillow, and their throats were so parched that they were glad to drink some putrid water from a neighbouring ditch. On the following morning, as they were getting under arms, some of the General’s spies came in. They brought an awful tale--it ran like a shudder along the lines. Strong men bowed their heads and wept. And they knew now that, in spite of their forced marches, in spite of the terrible battles they had fought, in spite of their grand heroism, they knew _they were too late to save--they could only avenge_. And there was not a man there who did not make a mental vow to have a terrible vengeance. When the first burst of grief was over, the troops moved forward to occupy the cantonment. As they neared it they saw an immense, balloon-shaped cloud arise, and then the earth was shaken with a fearful explosion. The retreating enemy had blown up the magazine. Soon the British flag was once more floating over the blood-stained city; the bagpipes and the bands filled the air with pæans of victory; the sword of Damocles had fallen. The Great White Hand had gripped the fiendish heart of the Nana, and his power was no more. CHAPTER XXIX. RETRIBUTION. After that great battle of Cawnpore, the baffled Nana fled. He understood that his dream had come true, and his very hair stood erect with fear. But he was a coward--a treacherous, sneaking cur, who feared to die; and he dare not seek the common native mode of avoiding disgrace, and kill himself. He fled towards Bhitoor, attended by half a dozen of his guards. As he galloped through the streets of Cawnpore, his horse flecked with foam, and he himself stained with perspiration and dust, he was met by a band of criers, who were clashing cymbals, and proclaiming, by order of Azimoolah, that the Feringhees had been exterminated. As Dundoo heard this, it sounded like a horrid mockery, for he knew how false it was. He knew now that if all the hosts of swarming India had been gathered in one mighty army, they would still have been powerless to exterminate the Feringhees.