"Strange," he says, "that some of those who are loudest against me for sparing the King, are also crying out at my destroying his sons. 'Quousque tandem?' I may well exclaim. But, in point of fact, I am quite indifferent to clamor either way. I made up my mind, at the time, to be abused. I was convinced I was right, and when I prepared to run the great physical risk of the attempt, I was equally game for the moral risk of praise or blame. These have not been, and are not times when a man who would serve his country dare hesitate, as to the personal consequences to himself, of what he thinks his duty."
"By Jove, Hodson, they ought to make you Commander-in-Chief for this," shouts the enthusiast to whom the prisoners were handed over. "Well, I'm glad you have got him, but I never expected to see either him or you again," says the Commander-in-Chief, and sits down and writes the following despatch:--
"The King, who accompanied the troops for some short distance last night, gave himself up to a party of Irregular Cavalry, whom I sent out in the direction of the fugitives, and he is now a prisoner under a guard of European soldiers."
Delhi is ours; but at what a cost in officers and men! and Nicholson is dead.
"With the single exception of my ever revered friend, Sir Henry Lawrence, and Colonel Mackeson, I have never met his equal in field or council; he was preëminently our best and bravest, and his loss is not to be atoned for in these days.
"The troops have behaved with singular moderation towards women and children, considering their provocation. I do not believe, and I have some means of knowing, that a single woman or child has been purposely injured by our troops, and the story on which your righteous indignation is grounded is quite false; the troops have been demoralized by drink, but nothing more."
In November he gets a few weeks' leave, and is off to Umbala to meet his wife for the last time, safe after all, and no longer a lieutenant under a cloud. What a meeting must that have been.
With the taking of Delhi our narrative, already too long, must close, though a grand five months of heroic action still remained. Nothing in the book exceeds in interest the ride of ninety-four miles from Seaton's column, with young Macdowell, to carry a despatch to Sir Colin, on December 30th. The tale of the early morning summons, the rumors of enemies on the road, the suspense as to the Chief's whereabouts, the leaving all escort behind, their flattering and cordial reception by Sir Colin, (who gets them "chops and ale in a quiet friendly way,") the fifty-four miles' ride home, the midnight alarm and escape, and the safe run in, take away our breath. And the finish is inimitable.