And under their captain's directions these fierce, victory-sniffing Welsh are delivering their attack upon the spot where he fancies he has found a yielding.

In vain Cameron rallies his powers; his nerve is failing him, his strength is done.

Only five minutes to play, but one minute is enough.

Down upon him through a broken field, dribbling the ball and following hard like hounds on a hare, come the Welsh, the tow-head raging in front, bloody and fearsome.

There is but one thing for Cameron to do; grip that tumbling ball, and, committing body and soul to fate, plunge into that line.