The sergeant gave the word to his men in a low voice, and seven rifles were levelled at Colonel Arundel, who sat still in his saddle, hat in hand, as he had saluted the King's flag. One swift turn of his head now and he saw the great emblazoned banner in the air; the next moment his breast was torn to pieces, and the old man fell forward as his horse swerved, and then the body tumbled from the saddle and lay in front of the brigade. "Colonel Gardener, take command here," said Devereux to an officer in the horror-struck staff; "and you, gentlemen," designating three or four of the staff by a motion of his hand, "follow me." He wheeled his horse and rode straight for the mess-tent, where the royal banner was flying. A young artillery officer, with one Gatling gun and a dozen troopers, were galloping toward the place from another direction. They reached the tent at the same moment as Colonel Devereux. "Halt!" he shouted to the gunners, and the mounted party stopped as if turned to stone. "Haul down that flag!" he ordered Dacre, pointing with his naked sword. "Never!" answered Dacre, standing at the foot of the mast. Colonel Devereux gave a stern command to the officer of the gun; the piece was trained on the flagstaff, and next instant, with a hellish roar, its sixty bullets tore the flag-pole into shreds, and the enormous banner cumbered the wet earth. Before the discharge Geoffrey had bodily seized Dacre and dragged him out of range. Better, perhaps, had he left him to his fate, for death at that moment, with his duty done, his sword in hand and his flag above him, would have saved him the deeper agony of shame and disappointment, which walked with him like shadows henceforward to the grave. The officer in charge of the gun ordered his troopers and drivers to ride across the fallen banner; and the hoofs and muddy wheels rent it to pieces and befouled it in the mire. "You are a coward!" cried Dacre, and rushing to the front he crossed swords with the mounted officer, wounding him in the arm. Next moment he was stretched senseless on the ill-fated flag, a gunner having struck him down with the stock of his carbine. The others yielded without a word. The artillery officer, his hand dripping blood, took their swords one by one and flung them contemptuously on the flag, beside John Dacre's senseless body. As they were marched off, surrounded by a cavalry guard, to be taken to London, Mr. Sydney, seeing that the Duke of Bayswater could hardly keep up, gave his arm to the infirm old man. "This is a grim joke," said Sydney; "I wonder what they will do with our friend Dacre." "Thanks," said the poor old fellow, leaning heavily on Sydney, and putting up his collar to keep out the rain. Then he turned a last look at Dacre, still lying as he had fallen. "If he is dead, I suppose they will bury him like a Christian gentleman, as he was." And, raising his hat, the courtly old man saluted the fallen soldier.