A withering fire of small arms met the Royal Picts as they approached
the battery; it was followed by the deafening roar of artillery; and
the murderous fire of the guns, great and small, nearly annihilated
the gallant band. Small wonder, then, that the survivors halted
irresolute, half disposed to turn back. Colonel Blythe was down. They
missed his encouraging voice; his noble figure was no more visible,
while his fine old white charger, riderless, his flanks streaming with
gore, was galloping madly down the hill. Many more officers were laid
low by this murderous discharge; amongst others, Anastasius Wilders
had fallen, severely wounded, and his blood had spurted out in a great
pool upon the colour he carried.
All this happened in less time than it takes to describe. It was one
of those moments of dire emergency, of great opportunity--suddenly
arising, gone as swiftly beyond recall, unless snatched up and dealt
with by a prompt, audacious spirit.
Young McKay saw it with the unerring instinct of a true soldier. He
acted instantaneously, and with bold decision.
Stooping over his prostrate cousin, who lay entangled amidst the folds
of the now crimson silk, he gently detached the colour, and, raising
it aloft, cried--
"Come on, Royal Picts!"
The men knew his voice, and, weakened, though not dispirited, they
gallantly responded to the appeal.
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