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whisper ran like an electric shock through the ranks that now was their time. With one tremendous shout of "Death to the barbarians-on, on to liberty and life," they sprung to their feet, their muskets in their hands, their sabres slung to their wrists! As though moved by a simultaneous impulse, they darted forwards, and flung themselves in the midst of the enemy. Not the whole force of the Turks, with their pealing cannon and the bayonets of the Arabian soldiers, could resist this tremendous shock. In a very few minutes their trenches were passed, their infantry scattered, and the artillerymen slaughtered at their guns. The Moslems seemed utterly paralysed by this sudden and daring attack; they allowed a wide space to be cleared, and now the brave Messalonghiotes pushed in a solid mass across the plain, headed by two Roumeliote chieftains, both of whom had passed their seventieth year.

Onward they passed, with a living wall on either side, and every step on a corpse; but behind, thundering after, came the Mahometan horsemen, and they, too, cut a terrible path for themselves through the midst of the fugitive women. Every inch of their track was gained by the life of those helpless ones— -infants lay trodden down beneath their horses' feet, and the mothers were stabbed at they passed-and thus struggling, mingling, devouring one another, the contending hosts raged over the plain, like monstrous serpents writhing about, and twining together their length in a deadly fight. At last, the troops of Kariaskaki came to the rescue; the horsemen were driven back, and those of the Greeks who yet survived succeeded in reaching the Zygos mountain, beyond which lay Salona, their hoped-for refuge. As they arrived at the foot of the hill, and paused one instant, panting and exhausted, they turned to look back, and perceived that the Turks, being thus forced to abandon their pursuit of those who had so miraculously escaped them, were now directing their whole fury against the unfortunate city, that for twelve long months had resisted their obstinate attack. They were pouring into the town along with the Arabian and Egyptian soldiers, and the fierce spirit of revenge had kindled in their

breasts a horrible eagerness to exterminate to the uttermost the lingering wreck of the gallant Messalonghiotes; but if there was but one terrible means by which Greeks could escape the ignominy of death by the Moslem knife, that means they were certain to adopt. Suddenly a most tremendous explosion was heard-the powder-magazine blew up with a dreadful crash. A sheet of fire burst forth from its ruins, and, borne up on its wings of soaring flame, the brave spirits of the Hellenic martyrs escaped for ever from the torments of their earthly existence. For many hours the conflagration raged, and one of those who stood with the army of fugitives on the hill of Zygos, himself a gallant Greek soldier, described how they heard, as they looked back, the prolonged shriek which rose from the death-agony of a multitude, and saw the "green smoke" ascending up to heaven from that funeral pile; and never, surely, did more awful incense roll up before the throne of Eternal Justice. Then the columns of thick, dark smoke assembled together, as though marshalled by an unseen leader in the air, and spread themselves out over the burning city like a vast black pall; and then the livelong night it hung, whilst sky and air were full of lurid light; and when the rising sun dispelled the horrors of the midnight darkness, and the fresh breeze lifted off that floating veil, it disclosed beneath, the scathed and ruined city become the mighty bier of a thousand dead.

The fugitives reached Salona in safety. With the siege of Messalonghi, as is well known, the more striking and important events of the Greek revolution terminate.

Lester, the Englishman, became much attached to the country for which he had fought. He never quitted it, nor had he any reason to repent, that a few holy words uttered over him in the church of Mount Chaon at midnight had given him a friend, who was, in very deed and truth, a sister to him unto his life's end. All that human care and tenderness could do to cheer the life of one who must needs traverse the portal of the tomb before he could behold his one only hope transformed to joy, Cyllene did for her deliverer. He never, however, altogether recovered

the effects of his physical sufferings at Messalonghi. One early spring he was seized with a frantic desire to return to England, that he might again behold the green grave laid in the shade of the Gothic porch, with the waving trees bending over it. His wish came too late.

On the bright but arid shore of a deserted part of the coast of Greece, there is a lonely mound, covered over only with the sparkling sands, and laid at the foot of a broken column, that once has stood within a Heathen temple. No Gothic church, with its sweet ringing chimes- no waving trees, or soft fresh dews-only above the eternal blue of the eastern sky, and all around the dashing of the sun

lit waters on the burning rocks; but there, a short time since, and it may be even now, over that stranger's nameless grave, a living monument is seen to bend a monument recording, better than the written stone, his generosity and gentleness of heart. By night, Cyllene makes that mound her pillow; by day she decks it with the starry sea-flowers, or branches of the solitary palm. In life, he was her only friend-in death, he is her only care. Her dwelling is hard by, but this is the home of her heart. She never weeps for him, for she knows how his spirit supplicated to be free; only at times she looks up to heaven with an impatient sigh.*

The history of the young Greek slave is no fiction. When the writer left Greece, she was supposed to be still living in the home she had made for herself by the tomb of her deliverer. There is only this difference, that he was in reality a Frenchman, and not an Englishman.

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