e is
worth to awake him."

As soon as the meaning of these words was understood by the hundred
and fifty miserable wretches inside, a pitiful, low wail went up. Then
commenced that long, dreadful agony which so few were to survive, and
which I only remember in successive glimpses of horror spread over
hours that were like years.

One of the last things we did, before all self-control was lost, was
to try and make a current of air by all sitting down together, and
then suddenly rising; but unhappily by this time several had grown so
weak that, having once gone down, they proved unequal to the effort of
getting up again, and fell under the feet of their companions. Among
these unfortunates was Marian's father, Mr. Rising, who had come in
with us, and stood a little way off in the press. Although preserving
his dazed, unconscious air in the midst of these calamities, he had
exhibited many symptoms of physical distress. He now remained sitting
helpless on the floor, and while I was trying to contrive some means
of assisting him, I saw the next man behind him very coolly step over
his body, spurning it with his foot. Poor Mr. Rising fell on his back,
groaning, and was instantly trodden out of sight.

My first impulse was to spare Marian the knowledge of her father's
shocking fate. Turning round hastily, I whispered--

"Don't look behind you, for God's sake!"

The words came too late. She turned her head, saw what had happened,
and shrieked aloud.

That shriek was the signal for fifty others, like wild beasts
answering each other in a wood, as the manhood of that tortured mob
suddenly forsook it, to be succeeded by brute despair. Some began to
hurl themselves against the door, others broke into frantic prayers
and imprecations. The clamour died down, rose again, and finally
settled into a monotonous, incessant cry for water.

All this time I had preserved my self-control very well, but when this
cry for water was raised, either the excessive pain I endured, or else
the mere example of so many persons around me, so shook me that I
could no longer command my motions, and I found myself screaming the
words in Indostanee at the old Jemautdar as though I would have torn
him in pieces.

The old man seemed to be really moved by our sufferings. He sent two
or three of the soldiers to fetch water, and they presently came to
the windows bearing it in skins.

It was a fatal act of mercy. The mere sight of the water instantly