In the foremost company of the Highland regiment were two staunch comrades, named Glandell and M’Donough, Irishmen and Catholics among the Scots and Presbyterians. In this street of death M’Donough’s leg was shattered by a bullet. He fell, but was not left to die. His stalwart chum raised the wounded man, took him on his back, and trudged on with his heavy burden. Nor did the hale man, thus encumbered, permit himself to be a non-combatant. When a chance offered him to fire a shot, Glandell propped his wounded comrade up against some wall, and would betake himself to his rifle, while it could be of service. Then he would pick M’Donough up again, and stagger cheerily onward, till the well-deserved goal of safety was reached. The road at one point ran under an archway, and here Neill met with his death-shot. He drew up his horse by the arch quite coolly, and was steadying the soldiers as they swept through it. A Sepoy leaned forward from a window above the arch, with his musket almost touching Neill’s head. Neill sat with his face turned to his shoulder, watching a gun going through the archway, when the Sepoy fired. His bullet struck the side of Neill’s head above the ear, and killed him instantly. Out of the tumult and passion of the fight thus dropped, in a moment, this most gallant of soldiers. Still the fierce fight raged. Still, beaten with a tempest of shot, the tormented column pushed on its dogged way. Suddenly from the head of the column rose a mighty shout. It was not the cry of soldiers at the charge, full of the wrath of battle. It was a great cry of exultation and triumph. Through the grey twilight, dark with eddying smoke, the leading files of the British had seen the battered archway of the Bailey Guard. The goal was reached. The beleaguered garrison had listened, with what eagerness may be imagined, to the tumult of the fight as it crept nearer them. Its smoke was blowing over their defences. Those who watched the advance from the Residency could measure the approach of the relieving force by the attitudes and gestures of the Sepoys on the house-tops, as they fired furiously down on the gallant column forcing its way along the streets beneath them. The storm of sound grew louder, clearer, deeper. Suddenly, through the smoke and twilight, they caught a glimpse of figures on horseback, the gleam of bayonets, the white faces and red uniforms of British soldiers. An earthwork blocked the Bailey Gate itself, but the handful of men acting as the garrison of the gate, pulled hurriedly back from its ragged embrasure in the wall, to the left of the entrance, one of the guns, and through that embrasure—Outram, on his big Australian horse, leading—came the Highlanders, with Havelock and his staff; then the Sikhs; then the Fusileers. The Residency was reached!