am and Havelock, Hodson, Sir Colin Campbell, and many another name
which is a household word in England. These men, in those days of fierce
fighting and desperate stress, made history and wrote themselves in its
pages by deeds that still cause every British boy's heart to ring within
him. We have passed through the Kashmir Gate, and here, on one side of
the street, is a battered bit of arcade, another Mutiny memorial. In the
early days, just at the first outbreak, when no one realised what was
going to happen, the mutineers marched on Delhi. This bit of wall was
part of the powder magazine, then in charge of nine men. They defended
it against a swarming army of Sepoys, as the native soldiers were
called, and when they found that they could not hold it in spite of
their desperate defence, they calmly blew up the powder magazine, and
themselves with it, to prevent its falling into the hands of the
mutineers and being used against their kinsmen. The most incredible part
of the whole story is that three of those who blew up the magazine
actually escaped with their lives!

We are now approaching the fort and palace, the kernel of the city,
which it is best to see after the ridge.

It is a fine building that faces us, with an ornamental arcade running
along the upper part. We pass in on foot under the gateway and see
another, a Hall of Public Audience, with red sandstone pillars. Inside
is a great throne of white marble, inlaid with mosaic work, where the
old kings of Delhi used to sit and listen to their ministers. The last
of this line was still living in the palace when the Mutiny broke out.
He was a poor specimen, given up to indulgence and sloth; but the
British had left him the state of royalty and all his wealth until the
rising made it impossible any more. His sons and grandson, who, when the
Mutiny broke out, themselves actually murdered and tortured helpless
English women and children, and watched their agonies as "sport," were
rightly shot out of hand, and the old king became a prisoner.

Coming out of this hall our eyes are caught by a gleam of something
lustrously white against a sky which is now burning blue. This is
another Hall of Audience, the Diwan-i-Khas, more beautiful than the
first. It is of white marble, which, in this clear atmosphere, remains
white, and it is richly ornamented with gilt. It is in the form of a
square cloister or arcade, with a little dome at each corner, and if we
stand inside and l