“Good again. The odds pitted against us are incalculable. But we are Englishmen. Duty and honour demand that these villains shall only reach the stores over our dead bodies.” “Bravo! We will fight to the death!” “Nobly said. Not only will we fight to the death, but nothing that this store-house contains shall fall into the hands of the cowardly assassins.” “Hurrah!” was the answer. “From the magazine,” Willoughby continued, “we will lay a train of powder, to that tree there in the compound. You, Scully, my brave fellow, shall stand at the tree with a lighted port-fire in your hand, and, when further defence is useless, you shall receive a signal from me to fire the train, and then, ho! for death and glory. Let all the outer gates be closed and barricaded. Load the six-pounder guns with double charges of grape, and while we can move an arm let the cowardly enemy be met with a reception that shall at least cause them to have some respect for British pluck.” The answer from his comrades was a wild, ringing cheer, and each man hurried to his task. The gates were closed and hasty barricades improvised. The guns were dragged out and placed in position, and into them grape and canister was crammed to the very muzzles. Then the door of the powder-room was opened and the heads were knocked out of several barrels, and the powder scattered about. From this a thick train was laid to the withered trunk of an old mango-tree. Here Conductor Scully, a young man, little more than a youth, but dauntless as a lion, was stationed, port-fire in hand. And the brave Willoughby placed himself in a conspicuous position, to issue orders, and assist in serving the guns. It was a heroic deed--history has scarcely a parallel. Those nine men, all in the flush of youth, setting themselves to oppose the advance of a countless multitude, and vowing that sooner than yield one grain of powder, or one pound of shot, they would bury themselves in the ruins. When the preparations were complete, the brave band sat down to wait. But they had not to wait long. The shrill sound of a bugle was heard, together with a hammering at the principal gate. Willoughby sprang on the wall. Below was Moghul Singh, accompanied by a number of troopers. “It is the King’s commands,” cried Moghul, when he saw the Englishman, “that you surrender this magazine and all its stores into his keeping. And, on condition of your so doing, he promises that your lives shall be spared, and that you shall have safe escort out of the city.” “This is our answer,” exclaimed the noble Willoughby, his face beaming with indignation. “If your vile and treacherous King desires this arsenal he shall have it, but we will surrender it to him a heap of smouldering ruins, together with our blackened bodies.” “That is an insolent reply,” Moghul remarked; “and I should advise you to reconsider it.” “There can be no reconsideration. Our decision is unalterable. We can die, but never surrender.”