Their forced marches under the fierce July sun, their long days of hard fighting, had been in vain. They had come too late — too late, that is, for anything but vengeance. The vestiges of recent tragedy were around them — the clotted floor, the shreds of hair and clothing, the ghastly well, where lay the last victims of the fierce Maráthá's lust for English blood. The dreadful story was soon told. About 400 English combatants and an equal number of women and children had been collected at a spot where defence, for more than a few days, was impossible. They were surrounded by a fully-equipped army of 3000 men. On June 5th the Sepoy regiments had risen and marched away to Delhi. The Náná, who had till then professed to be assisting the English, took the command. Conscious of the cool welcome which a Maráthá leader was likely to receive from the Musalmáns at Delhi, he induced the rebel force to return with him to Cawnpur. From that moment the doom of the garrison was sealed. The so-called siege was one long massacre throughout. All the artillerymen were killed or wounded in the first week. On June 11th the thatch of the barrack, which had afforded a scanty refuge to the women, children and wounded men, was fired by red-hot balls, and the whole building was presently a mass of flames. On the 10th a message from Sir Henry Lawrence at Lucknow had told the doomed garrison that he was powerless to help them. Two fierce assaults were repelled. Misery, exposure, exhaustion, the ceaseless
