never forget Mrs. Vandegobbleschroy's despairing look, as I
saw her sitting alone, attempting to make some impression on the little
white elephant's roasted tail.

The third day the attack was repeated. The resources of genius are never
at an end. Yesterday I had no ammunition; to-day, I discovered charges
sufficient for two guns, and two swivels, which were much longer, but
had bores of about blunderbuss size.

This time my friend Loll Mahommed, who had received, as the reader may
remember, such a bastinadoing for my sake, headed the attack. The poor
wretch could not walk, but he was carried in an open palanquin, and
came on waving his sword, and cursing horribly in his Hindustan jargon.
Behind him came troops of matchlock-men, who picked off every one of
our men who showed their noses above the ramparts: and a great host of
blackamoors with scaling-ladders, bundles to fill the ditch, fascines,
gabions, culverins, demilunes, counterscarps, and all the other
appurtenances of offensive war.

On they came: my guns and men were ready for them. You will ask how my
pieces were loaded? I answer, that though my garrison were without food,
I knew my duty as an officer, and had put the two Dutch cheeses into the
two guns, and had crammed the contents of a bottle of olives into each
swivel.

They advanced,--whish! went one of the Dutch cheeses,--bang! went the
other. Alas! they did little execution. In their first contact with an
opposing body, they certainly floored it but they became at once like so
much Welsh-rabbit, and did no execution beyond the man whom they struck
down.

"Hogree, pogree, wongree-fum (praise to Allah and the forty-nine
Imaums!)" shouted out the ferocious Loll Mahommed when he saw the
failure of my shot. "Onward, sons of the Prophet! the infidel has no
more ammunition. A hundred thousand lakhs of rupees to the man who
brings me Gahagan's head!"

His men set up a shout, and rushed forward--he, to do him justice, was
at the very head, urging on his own palanquin-bearers, and poking them
with the tip of his scimitar. They came panting up the hill: I was
black with rage, but it was the cold, concentrated rage of despair.
"Macgillicuddy," said I, calling that faithful officer, "you know where
the barrels of powder are?" He did. "You know the use to make of them?"
He did. He grasped my hand. "Goliah," said he, "farewell! I swear that
the fort shall be in atoms, as soon as yonder unbelievers have carried