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and by his firmness and courage he was soon able to turn the tide and subdue the rebel tribes in the north of Scinde.

Amongst them was a band of robbers who had been unconquered for six hundred years. They lived in a high valley hemmed in by mountains so closely that there were only two or three ways by which you could get through; and these two or three ways were so steep and so hard to find that the robbers thought themselves pretty sure and pretty safe.

Wild and rude indeed was their fastness of Trukkee; inaccessible, as they considered, was their stronghold; but Sir Charles Napier resolved to have it, and when he resolved a thing it was as good as done. He called his army together, and asked who would volunteer for this perilous service. Now, there was a certain regiment which, in consequence of bad behaviour and disaffection, had been disgraced, and its colours had been taken away. A hundred of these men volunteered.

"Soldiers of the 64th," said the commander, pointing to the rocky heights they were to scale, "your colours are on the top of yonder hill! "

Do you think the precipice deterred them? Do you think they needed telling twice when the way to retrieve their honour was put before them? No; the fastness of Trukkee was won, and the men of the 64th regiment won back their colours by this deed of daring.

And what was it after all? Their colours? A bit of silk, ragged, perhaps, faded, torn with shot, and no trace of brightness or beauty in it! What was the good of risking life and limb for that? Yes; take its significance away and you are quite right— it is nothing; but as the flag which floats before the army marching on to victory"the flag which has braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze"-as the symbol of England and England's Queen, it is everything to the soldier.

For the soldier's heart has got poetry in it, though it may seem hard and stern, and this passionate regard to the symbol for the sake of what it stands for is indeed the true poetic spirit. Take a piece of silk, and it is a mere bit of manufacture so many feet square and worth a few shillings. Call it the colours of a regiment, and at once it becomes a thing for which men will die.

Many a man who loved life as much as you do has died, and been proud to die, for the sake of these colours; so we see it is not sentiment only, but an all-absorbing settled conviction which makes them ready to do so.

Listen to a more recent instance of some who were thus "faithful unto death."

It may be remembered that in the late war in the South of Africa, the colours of the 24th regiment were missing after the unfortunate battle of Isandlana. The British camp had been surrounded by the Zulus, and the day was lost. It is a sad story to have to tell, but we all know it is true.

The 24th regiment, or at least the poor remains of it, made their way across the Buffalo river on that fatal afternoon of the 22nd of January. And the colours, where were they? Did they fall into the hands of the enemy? Nay, "Come what may, that shall not be," said in their hearts the brave men who thought of the honour of their army before their own lives.

The adjutant of the first battalion of the 24th regiment, Lieutenant Teignmouth Melvill, seized the colours and started off

on horseback, determined to save them. No easy matter, we can assure you.

The ground was so rough and precipitous that to traverse it on horseback was in itself a difficulty, besides which the Zulus kept pace with him and the other fugitives, harassing them and hindering them, and trying at every point to cut off their retreat. In front a broad and rapid river had to be crossed, and there was no other way.

Encumbered as he was, Lieutenant Melvill reached the stream in safety, and plunged, man and horse together, into its waters. But anxiety for the flag made him lose the management of his horse, and in the middle of the river his horse and he parted company. His precious burden was still in his hands, and, clinging fast to it, he was carried down by the current to a large rock on which another fugitive, Lieutenant Higginson, had also landed. He tried to help him, but the force of the waters was so strong they were both washed off the rock and again carried down.

Presently they were seen by Lieutenant Coghill, who had swam through the river and reached the other shore. He had met with an accident to his knee, so that he had

been left in the camp in the morning, but had escaped after the attack with the other soldiers. When he saw his comrades struggling in the water, he turned his horse's head round and plunged in to their assistance.

But the dangers thickened; for by this time the Zulus had collected on the bank, and were opening a brisk fire upon them. Coghill's horse was shot, and both he and Melvill had great difficulty in struggling out of the water. Worst of all, as they thought, the flag was wrested out of their hands, not by the enemy, but by the stream. They saw it gradually sink; down it went with its heavy embroidery and its fringe, and they beheld it no more. They reached the shore exhausted and almost lifeless, yet perchance they felt the sacrifice had not been in vain, for the stream had folded itself lovingly round the treasure; it would sleep there in a quiet grave, safe from the savage Zulus, and from all dishonour which might have come to it.

The colours were afterwards recovered; but that they never knew. Dismounted, and one crippled, the two brave men could do nothing more than sit down to await

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