But the thought was scarcely formed, when the air became darkened. Even at the distance he was, it seemed as if a mighty whirlwind was sweeping over. He saw the stupendous sheet of fire leap into the air, and he knew that the arsenal had been blown up. The terrific shock shook the ground, and some of the crumbling masonry of his retreat tottered and fell with a crash. He buried his face in his hands to hide the awfulness of the scene, and an unutterable sorrow took possession of him, for he could not hope that any one of the noble defenders could escape from that fiery storm. Slowly the time passed now, as he sat on a fallen stone and thought over the fortunes of war, and of the strange chance that had placed him in the position to be a witness of that terrible drama. Soldier he was, it was true, and though he yearned to be up and doing, how could he hope to prevail against a multitude? He felt that he was a victim to circumstances which it would be as useless for him to try and control as it would be to attempt to stay the wind. If he wished to live he must yield himself unconditionally to his fate. Those were the only terms, for what others could he make? Two faces came before him. They were those of Haidee and his wife. He could not serve them both. He must be false to one and true to the other. Haidee meant life; his wife--death. For without Haidee’s assistance he felt convinced that there was not the remotest possibility of escape. But would it not be better to die, conscious of having done his duty, rather than live to dishonour? He grew bewildered with the conflicting emotions that tortured him, and, overcome with weariness, slept. When he awoke the day was declining. Down sank the sun, and night closed in quickly on the short Indian twilight. Alas! he thought how many a blackened corpse, a few hours before full of hope and energy--how many an agonised heart, that had beaten that morning with happiness and joy, did the curtain of the night cover?