lay in flight. Ere the day closed, every European who had risen that morning in Delhi, was dead, or awaiting death, or wandering about the country in the desperate endeavour to reach a place of safety.
A day dark with disaster was, however, illumined by the first of those heroic acts which will make the siege of Delhi immortal. The insurgents had their first taste of the quality of the race whose ascendancy they had elected to assail. Lieutenant Willoughby, the officer in charge of the Magazine, and eight gallant companions, resolved, early in the day, that, if they could not defend their invaluable supply of ammunition, they would destroy it, though its destruction would almost certainly involve their own. For hours they defended their stronghold against an overpowering crowd of assailants. The train was laid: the sergeant who was to fire it stood ready: Willoughby took a last look out upon the Meerut road: the assailants were swarming on the walls. The word was spoken: a vast column of flame and smoke shot upward. Two thousand of the assailants were blown into the air. The thunder of that explosion announced to the mutineers that one great object in the seizure of Delhi had escaped their grasp. Was it an opening note of victory, or the knell of an abortive insurrection?
The mutiny began badly for the English. Its first great episode was one which, least of any in its history, can be remembered with satisfaction. Englishmen for the most part, during that dread ordeal, rose nobly to the occasion; but those, whom circum-
