ve any effect on them. The
guilty Nana, with the blood of the recent treacherous massacre on his
hands, grew desperate at the hopelessness of the situation, and called a
council of war. What plans could they devise to keep out the English?
what steps could they adopt to stay their advance. The conclusion arrived
at in that council of human tigers could have found expression nowhere
save in the brains of Asiatics, illogical, and diabolically cruel. "We
will destroy the maims and baba logues," they said, "and inform the
English force of it; they will then be disheartened, and go back, for
they are only a handful in number!"

How the unfortunate innocents were butchered in cold blood in the
beebeegurch where they were confined, by Sepoys who gloried in trying
their skill at severing the ladies' heads from their bodies at one cut,
in splitting little children in twain, and in smearing themselves with
the blood of their helpless victims, is too harrowing a tale to dwell
upon here. On the following morning "the mangled bodies of both dead and
dying" were cast into the well over which now hovers the marble
representation of the Pitying Angel. When the victorious relieving force
scattered Nana's remaining forces and entered the city, two days later,
instead of the living forms of those they had made such heroic efforts to
save, they looked down the well and saw their ghastly remains.

In this lovely garden, where all is now so calm and peaceful, scarcely
does it seem possible that beneath the marble figure of this Pitying
Angel repose the dust of two hundred of England's gentle martyrs, whose
murdered and mutilated forms, but thirty years ago, choked up the well
into which they were tossed. While I stand and read the sorrowful
inscription it rains a gentle, soft, unpattering shower. Are these gentle
droppings the tender tribute of angels' tears. I wonder, and does it
always rain so soft and noiselessly here as it does to-day?

No natives are permitted in this garden without special permission; and
an English soldier keeps sentinel at the entrance-gate instead of the
Sepoy usually found on such duty. The memory of this tragedy seems to
hang over Cawnpore like a cloud even to this day, and to cause a feeling
of bitterness in the minds of Englishmen, who everywhere else regard the
natives about them with no other feelings than of the kindliest possible
nature. Other monuments of the mutiny exist, notably the Memorial Church,
a s