On the extreme right of the ridge, where the lofty Memorial of the great siege now stands, the besiegers had a heavy gun battery, known as the Right Battery, which was twelve hundred yards from the city wall. From the steps of the Memorial we saw a sight of great beauty. Below us lay a stretch of broken ground dotted with green trees. Beyond it was a long line of purple walls, within which rose the fair city with its stately mosques and minarets. As we gazed, the white dome of the Jumma Musjid caught a pale pink flush, and of a sudden the full glory of the setting sun fell upon the tall red minarets, and a golden glow swept over the blue waters of the Jumna. All was peaceful now. It was hard to picture the mortal strife for Empire which took place in that valley only a quarter of a century ago.
Quitting with regret our point of vantage, we descended the ridge, and drove back towards the city. As we ap proached the Cashmere Gate, Lord Roberts expressed his intention of paying a last visit to the grave of John Nichol son, for his " forty-one years' service in India " had been completed, and he was on his way home. Thirty-six years before, the Commander-in-Chief, then a subaltern in the Bengal Artillery, had marched out of Delhi the morning of Nicholson's funeral. " It was a matter of regret to me," he writes in his modest autobiography, " that I was unable to pay a last tribute of respect to my loved and honoured friend and commander by following his body to the grave, but I could not leave the column." The old cemetery stands by the road, and is surrounded by lofty trees. The inside is bright with budding flowers and roses. Near the entrance is the grave of John Nicholson. A few roses were
placed on the tomb by his old comrade, and he stood for many minutes gazing at the resting-place of his loved and honoured friend. He then joined us at the gate, and as we drove away, beyond the cemetery walls we had, through the , trees, a glimpse of the breach through which Nicholson led his victorious soldiers. " I never saw any one like him," was the only remark that broke the silence.
We return through the Cashmere Gate to the city. Pass ing by the church, we reach an archway supported by two towers. This is the old gate which led to the Delhi Arsenal. The past in one flash of consciousness rushes back. Thirty years ago my father used often to drive me through that gate, and great was my boyish delight at the sight of all the guns and munitions of war. On a tablet above the archway are inscribed the names of the nine valiant, resolute men who, deserted by all their dependants, for some hours kept at bay a multitude of trained and disciplined men. Then the guns could no longer be worked. A shout of triumph rose from the walls. It was momentary. The signal was given and the train lighted. A crash of thunder followed, and the exulting assailants were dashed to pieces by the explosion of hundreds of shells and powder barrels. And the three hundred Spartans who in the summer morning sat " combing their long hair " in the passes of Thermopylx have not earned a more lofty estimate for themselves than these nine modern Englishmen. A name on the tablet recalls a dear memory and a great sorrow. But the heart swells with pride at the thought that his name will live long as men reverence deeds of valour.