The Third Bengal Artillery, whose comrades were languishing in gaol, rushed from their lines towards the hospital, which had been turned into a temporary prison for the “eighty-five,” whose only guard was a small body of natives. This was one of the most inconceivable acts of stupidity that occurred during the whole of the frightful mutiny. And when it was too late, it became painfully evident that someone had blundered. Who was responsible for the error? men asked of one another as they hurried about in the first panic of alarm. But no one answered the question, and through the weakness of the administration at that critical period, hundreds of innocent lives paid the penalty. On went the half-maddened men of the Third, their cry now being “To the rescue!” Some were in uniform, man and horse fully accoutred, some in their stable dress, with only watering rein and horse cloth on their chargers, but all armed to the teeth, and on the faces of all a grim, resolute expression of ferocity. They reached the walls of the gaol; not the slightest opposition was offered; the rescue began. Down they tore the masonry around the cells; iron bars were wrenched away, and used to batter in the gates. Then forth came the “eighty-five”; their manacles were struck off, and the erst-while felons stood free men, with the light of the incendiary fires beating upon their dusky faces. Up behind their deliverers they mounted, and rode back to the lines, their hearts thirsting for revenge. When they got to their quarters they were joined by the Eleventh Native Regiment. Colonel Finnis, who commanded the Eleventh, strong in his belief of the loyalty of his regiment, rode in amongst them. “Men of the Eleventh!” he cried, “be true to your Queen, and do not disgrace your profession of arms by acts of violence and mutiny. Whatever wrongs you have I pledge you, in the name of the Queen, that they shall be redressed. Remember that we have helpless women and children amongst us who look to you for protection. You are human, and in your human hearts let the voice of pity obliterate your feelings of bitterness. I, your colonel, command you to return peaceably to your barracks, and I will protect you from all consequences of this act.” The answer was a report, and the colonel’s horse staggered and fell beneath its rider. Another shot was fired; it went clean through the colonel’s body. A volley followed--and Colonel Finnis fell dead, completely riddled with bullets. Then, from every quarter of Meerut, rose heavy columns of smoke, that were illuminated with many coloured flames. The sight was awful; the rolling of the musketry, the crackling of the fires, the crashing of falling timbers, the shrieks of the dying and the wounded, the cry of defenceless women, the piteous neighing of the horses as they were scorched to death in their stables, the yells, and shouts of the rabble, made up a night of horrors, such as, in the history of the world, has rarely been recorded.