“I, a subject of her Britannic Majesty, Queen Victoria, hereby protest against this murderous outrage committed against the English flag, under which I and my friends have fought since our entry into this country.”
Again there was a death-like silence, almost instantly broken by the incisive words of command—
“Ready! Present!”
Grenville now gazed unflinchingly right into the muzzles of the rifles; an unearthly calm had come over him, and briefly, yet earnestly, commending his soul to God, he waited the fatal word, blind and deaf to all else but the rifles, which seemed to exercise a curious fascination upon him.
Then, just as he heard the final word of command, “Fire!” he was conscious of a shriek, and someone seized him round the neck, threw their person upon his breast, and endeavoured to drag him down.
Too late! Ah, God, too late! The fatal tubes vomited a sheet of angry flame; the deadly messengers sped forth upon their cruel errand; and a body, lately instinct with life and health, lay writhing on the greensward, gasping in the death agony.
But whose body? Bewildered and confused, called back to life when he believed himself already dead, Grenville bent over the person who had so nobly and uselessly given a precious life for him, and uttered a wild and bitter cry of anguish as he recognised the lovely Rose of Sharon. Dropping on his knees, he raised the apparently inanimate corpse in his arms, crying—
“Rose! Rose! speak to me, my darling.”
And instantly her eyes opened, and a sweet and radiantly lovely smile seemed to break up the stony countenance before him—to chase away the very shadows of death and leave her face even as that of an angel.
“Dick, dear Dick,” she panted, “I have saved you. Kiss me, my own dear love, and—good-bye.”