At 8 P.M. on July 2 Lawrence was lying on his bed in this room, with Colonel Wilson sitting beside him writing down some instructions from his lips. Lawrence’s nephew, George, was reclining on a bed a few feet distant from his uncle; a coolie sat on the floor pulling the punkah. Suddenly, with a terrific rush, a second shell from that fatal howitzer broke into the room and exploded there. As George Lawrence describes it, “There was an instant’s darkness, and a kind of red glare, and a blast as of thunder. I found myself uninjured, though covered with bricks from top to toe.” The very clothes were torn off Wilson’s body, but he, too, was uninjured. Lawrence was the only member of the group struck by the exploding shell, and he was mortally wounded, the whole of the lower part of his body being shattered. Colonel Wilson tells graphically the story of the exploding shell, the sheet of flame, the blast of sound, the dust, the thick darkness, the strangling smoke. He was himself thrown on the floor, and lay for a few moments stunned. Staggering to his feet, he cried, “Sir Henry, are you hurt?” “Twice I thus called without any answer; the third time he said, in a low tone, ‘I am killed.’” When the dust cleared away, it was seen that the coverlet on Lawrence’s bed, a moment before white, was now crimsoned with his blood. He died on the morning of July 4, and the story of the thirty-six hours between his wound and his death is strangely pathetic. Fayrer, who was the resident surgeon, was brought hurriedly in, and Lawrence in a whisper asked him how long he had to live. A fragment of the shell had struck the hip and comminuted the upper part of the thigh-bone. The wound was plainly fatal; and as the walls of the room in which Lawrence lay were shaking continually to the stroke of the enemy’s round-shot, the dying man was carried to the verandah of Dr. Fayrer’s house, and there lay through the night, while life ebbed away. The Sepoys, somehow, got to know that Lawrence was lying under this particular verandah, and they turned on it what Fayrer describes as a “most fiendish fire of round-shot and musketry.” Through it all Lawrence kept the most perfect composure. He named his successor, Major Banks, and dictated exact and most luminous instructions as to the conduct of the siege. No finer proof of his clear, tenacious, forecasting intellect can be imagined than is supplied by the counsels which, whispered with dying breath, he gave to those on whom the responsibility of the defence must rest. Lawrence thought of everything and foresaw everything. The whole tactics of defence—how to keep the English members of the garrison in health, how to use the Sepoys, how to economise the provisions. “Entrench, entrench,” was the burden of his whispered counsels, urged with dying lips. “Let every man,” he said, “die at his post, but never make terms.” Only when he mentioned his wife’s name did his iron