May morning (May 11, 1857) the troopers of the 3d Cavalry stood under the windows of the King demanding admittance and support. The King was an old man, ruled to a great extent by a favourite wife, whose hopes had been dashed to the ground by the British Government. He himself, his courtiers, his sons, his dependents, knew that the fiat had gone forth from Calcutta which, on his death, would humble to the dust the House of Taimur. We cannot wonder that their feelings should have prompted them to seize any opportunity which might present itself. We cannot wonder that, with the shadow of the despoiler before them, his threats ringing in their ears, they should have decided to strike a blow for the restoration of the family honours: to court death rather than submit to disgrace. Neither in the past nor in the present has a single man of the two hundred and fifty millions of natives of India condemned them for their action on that memorable morning. The reverse was the case. The sympathy of India was with them, and it was the conviction that it would be so which decided them.
Attached to the citadel, and representing British interests at the palace, were the Commissioner of Dehlí, Mr Fraser, and the Commandant of the Palace Guards, Captain Douglas. No sooner did the aged King hear the voices of the troopers under his windows than he sent to summon Captain Douglas to inquire the meaning of their presence. Captain Douglas pleaded ignorance, but, confident in the magic of the appearance of a British officer, declared he would go down to speak to them, and send them away. The King, apparently ignorant of their purpose, and yet dreading the reason of their presence, begged the young Englishman not to expose his life. The King's physician added his en-
