The British, as
they rushed in by this new way, trampled on the body of the fallen
monarch. He was a splendid object even in death; his long dark ringlets
were flowing over his glittering garments, and his sharp sword, with its
golden hilt, was in his hand. The British hurried by, and climbed the
steep and narrow stairs leading to the top of the citadel, and the enemy
no longer durst oppose their course.
On the terrace at the top of the citadel, in the open air, stood the
nobles of Beloochistan. There were princes too from the countries all
around. It was a magnificent assembly. These men were the finest of a
fine race. Some were clad in shining armor, and others in flowing
garments of green and gold. Thus they stood for a _moment_, and the
_next_--they were rolling on the ground!!
How was this? Had not peace been agreed upon on both sides? Yes, but a
British soldier had attempted to take away the sword of one of the
princes. The prince had resisted, and with his sword, had wounded the
soldier; and instantly every British gun on that spot had been pointed at
the nobles of Beloochistan.
This was why the nobles were lying in the agonies of death.
Our young soldier was not one of those who slew the nobles. He was
standing on another part of the terrace, when, hearing a tremendous
volley of guns, he exclaimed to a friend, "What can that be?" Going
forward, he beheld heaps of bleeding bodies, turbans, and garments--in
one confused mass.
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