“But the King commands you.” “If the King were here in person to make the command, we would answer him with a round of grape. But you are only a myrmidon of his, and so we treat you with contempt.” “By the Prophet’s beard,” cried Moghul, shaking with rage, “if I were near you I would make you eat your words, dog of an Englishman! But since you do not recognise the authority of his Majesty, whose power is now supreme, we will teach you a lesson. The reign of the cursed Feringhees is at an end, and the Mussulman’s time has come!” The man turned his horse’s head and rode away, and Willoughby descended from the wall. “Comrades!” he cried, “we have not a moment to lose. These black devils will be down upon us directly in countless thousands. But they shall only reach the top of our wall over the heaps of their own slain. We are but nine, but for each one of our lives there shall fall hundreds of these wretches, who are little less than demons.” Then, with an energy begotten by the nature of the situation, they dragged out a number of guns, and placed them in a line so as to command the gateway and the front wall. Scarcely was this arrangement completed than the air was rent with the yells of the mutineers and the rabble, as they swarmed down to the arsenal. They were met with a terrific fire from the walls, delivered with all the coolness and steadiness of a practice parade. And as the guns belched forth their awful grape, scores of the on-coming horde bit the dust. This unexpected reception caused a momentary check to the advance of the rabble. But it was but momentary, for the gaps were instantly filled, and on the infuriated mob rushed again. Once more they reeled and staggered, as from the walls came the messengers of death. Quickly recovering, and infuriated beyond control with their unseen foe, they raised a rallying cry-- “For the Prophet and the Faith! For the King and Liberty!” And then they came down like an impetuous torrent, leaving in their wake a track of dead and dying, for round after round was delivered from the arsenal with terrible effect. But the enemy was legion. As thousands fell, there were thousands instantly to take their place, and thousands more again to fill up every gap. Onward they pressed, yelling with fury, maddened with rage. Inside the walls, the noble and devoted band stood unflinchingly at their post. Grimed and blackened with smoke and powder, the brave Willoughby worked with almost superhuman strength, carrying heavy cases of grape and bags of powder; now serving this gun, now that; encouraging his comrades with cheery words, and hurrahing as he saw how their well-directed fire told upon the swarming enemy.