venge the savage butchery. Shall I, a daughter of sunny
Portugal, in whose veins flows the proud blood of Castille, bid you
stay?"

He held her out at arm's length, he gazed into her eyes, flashing with
pride and indignation.

"Go, Enrico. The steamer leaves to-morrow at daybreak. Go: and come
back to me covered with glory, as you will come."

"And if I return no more, Isabel?"

"Still go, Enrico; and lead your regiment in the thickest of the fray.
Tell them they fight for their wives and children; and when the murders
are avenged, when what remains of the helpless prisoners are safe, when
the flag of your country waves victorious in the land, come back to me,
or,"--and for the first time the flushed countenance paled and the voice
trembled--"or," she continued, "Enrico mio, I will come to you;" and,
bursting into tears, her beautiful head sunk on the soldier's breast, as
he clasped her fervently in his arms.

Volume 2, Chapter XII.

THE RELIEF OF CAWNPORE.

The news of the fearful outbreak in India had taken the English by
surprise. The dreadful atrocities of Cawnpore, the massacres
perpetrated by Nana Sahib, who had ever been looked upon as the
Englishman's friend, had carried a sense of woe and desolation to the
heart of the land, but the first numbing sense of sorrow had passed, and
many a gallant fellow was on his way to India to wipe out the stain,
which the revolt of her Sepoy army had cast upon the time-honoured
banner of England.

"Lucknow has fallen!" were the words which met Major Hughes as he
hurried on to the front one bright November morning in the memorable
year of 1857. Then came reports of the demise of Sir John Lawrence, and
at last, when within a few hours' march of the place itself, a rumour
soon changed into a certainty, spread far and wide, announcing the death
of the gallant Havelock. For a time the horizon of the Indian world
seemed again clouded over by an event which was wholly unexpected.
Lucknow had fallen before a small force, whose determined gallantry had
carried all before it, but the man whose masterly brain had planned, and
whose daring gallantry had carried out the advance through a country
literally swarming with enemies, the soldier under whose direct
superintendence the Secunderabagh had been stormed, and who had spared
neither health, constitution, nor blood in the cause of his country, had
consummated the sacrifice with his life. The gallant Havelock was no
more.