Alas, his doom is upon him! He grips the ball, pauses a moment--only a fatal moment,--but it is enough.

His plunge is too late.
He loses the ball.

A surge of Welshmen overwhelm him in the mud and carry the ball across.

The game is won--and lost.

What though the Scots, like demons suddenly released from hell, the half-back Cameron most demon-like of all, rage over the field, driving the Welshmen hither and thither at will, the gods deny them victory; it is for Wales that day! In the retreat of their rubbing-room the gay, gallant humour which the Scots have carried with them off the field of their defeat, vanishes into gloom.