Jock handed Macnab the token from the place of the slaughter.

"Stan' roun' me, men!" commanded Macnab.

The Highlanders closed about him silently, impressed by the solemnity of his tone.

Then Macnab bade them to join hands round him. When they had done so, he lifted up his voice, and spoke with measured solemnity, his eyes blazing and the blood all in his old worn face—

"By the mithers that bore ye, by yer young sisters and brithers at hame in the clachan an' the glen, by yer ain wives an' weans some o' ye, swear by this token that henceforth ye show nae ruth to the race that has done this accursed deed of bluid!"

Sternly, from deep down in every throat, came the hoarse answer, "We swear!" Then Macnab parted out the tress into as many locks as there were men in the circle, distributing to each a lock. He coiled up the lock he had kept for himself, and opening his doublet, placed it on his heart. His comrades

silently imitated him.

All the world knows the marvellous story of Havelock's relief of Lucknow; against what odds the little column he commanded so gallantly fought its way from Cawnpore over the intervening forty miles; with what heroism and what losses it battled its way through the intricacies and obstacles of the native city; till at length, Havelock and Outram riding at its head, it marched along the street of

death till the Bailey-guard gate of the Residency was reached, and greetings and cheers reached the war-worn relievers from the far-spent garrison which had all but abandoned hope of relief. Before the advance from Cawnpore began, Mick Sullivan and his chum, remaining still nominally attached to the Highland regiment, had joined the little force of irregular cavalry which Havelock had gathered from the infantrymen who could ride, while he waited at Cawnpore for reinforcements. As scouts, on reconnaissance duty, in pursuits and in sheer hard fighting, this little cohort of mounted men had its full share of adventure and danger, and the Light Dragoon comrades had great delight in being once again back in the saddle.

When the main column had pressed on into the Residency, the wounded of the fighting in the suburbs and native town had been left behind in the Motee Mahal along with the rearguard. On the morning after the entrance, a detachment of volunteers sallied out to escort into the Residency the doolies in which the wounded still lay inadequately cared for. The return journey from the first was much molested by hostile fire, many of the native bearers bolting, and leaving the doolies to be carried by the escorting Europeans. The guide became bewildered, and the head of the procession of doolies deviated from the proper route into a square which proved a perfect death-trap, and has passed into history as "Doolie Square." The handful of escorting soldiers, of whom

Mick's comrade was one, fought desperately to protect the poor wounded lying helpless in the doolies; but the rebels drove them back by sheer weight, and massacred a large proportion of the hapless inmates. Too late to save these, the fire of the escort cleared the square, and fortunately no more doolies entered the fatal cul-de-sac. Suddenly the little party holding their ground there became aware of a great commotion in the street, just outside the archway which formed the entrance to the square. Pistol-shots were heard, and loud shouts in Hindustanee mingled with something that sounded like a British oath. A sally

was at once made. Darting out of the square through the archway, the sallying party fought their way through the swarm of Sepoys outside to where a single European swaying a cavalry sabre, his back against the wall, and covering a wounded boy-officer who lay at his feet, was keeping at bay, now with a dexterous parry, anon with a swift sweeping cut, and again with a lightning thrust, the throng of howling miscreants who pressed around him. The foremost man of the sallying party, cutting down a Pandy who turned on him, sprang to the side of the man with the dripping sabre in his hand.

"Look if the lad's alive," were the first words of Mick Sullivan, for he was the man with the sabre.

Mick's chum, for he it was who had headed the rescuers, stooped down, and found the young officer alive and conscious. He told Mick so.

"Thin hould me up, acushla, for it's kilt intirely

I am," and poor Mick threw his arm over his chum's shoulder, and the gallant fellow's head fell on his breast.

The Pandies were massing again, so the little party, carrying Mick and the officer, struggled back again into their feeble refuge inside the square. The youngster was seen to first, and then Dr. Home proceeded to investigate Mick's condition.

"Och an' sure, docthor jewel, ye may save yersilf the trouble. I'm kilt all over- -as full of wownds as Donnybrook is of drunk men at noightfall. I've got me discharge from the sarvice, an' that widout a pinsion. There's niver a praiste in an odd corner av the mansion, is there, chum ? "

The chum told him the place was not a likely one for priests.

"I'd fain have confissed before I die, an' had a word wid a praiste, but sure they can't expict a man on active sarvice to go out av the wurrld as reg'lar as if he were turnin' his toes up in his bed. Chum," continued the poor fellow, his voice becoming weaker as the blood trickled from him into a hollow of the earthen floor, "chum, dear, give us a hould av yer hand. Ye mind that poor young crayture av a wife of mine I left wapin' fur me on the quay av Southampton. There's some goold and jools in the dimmickin' bag in me belt, an' if ye could send them to her, ye would be doin' yer old chum a kindness."

The chum promised in a word—his heart was too full for more. Mick lay back silent for a little,

gasping in his growing exhaustion.

But suddenly

he raised himself again on his elbow, and in a heightened voice continued

"An', chum, if ever ye see the 30th Light again, tell them, will ye, that Mick Sullivan died wid a sword in his hand "-he had never quitted the grip of the bloody sabre-" an' wid spurs on his heels. I take ye all to witness, men, that I die a dhragoon, an' not a swaddy! Divil a word have I to say against the Ross-shire Buffs, chaps-divil a word; but I'm a dhragoon to the last dhrap av me blood! Ah me!"-here honest Mick's voice broke for the first time-"ah me! niver more will I back horse or wield sword!"

And then he fell back, panting for breath, and it seemed as if he had spoken his last words. But the mind of the dying man was on a train of thought that would still have expression. Again he raised himself into a sitting posture, and loud and clear, as if on the parade-ground, there rang out from his lips the consecutive words of command

A torrent of blood gushed from his mouth, and he fell forward dead. Mick Sullivan had dismounted for ever.

When the great mutiny was finally stamped out,