The men with unloaded rifles and fixed bayonets stole on once more, their bodies bent, their eyes peering through the mirk for the first sign of the enemy--that enemy whose first sign has usually been a shattering volley.

Thorneycroft's men with their gallant leader had threaded their way up into the advance.

Then the leading files found that they were walking on the level.

The crest had been gained.
With slow steps and bated breath, the open line of skirmishers stole across it.

Was it possible that it had been entirely abandoned?
Suddenly a raucous shout of 'Wie da ?' came out of the darkness, then a shot, then a splutter of musketry and a yell, as the Fusiliers sprang onwards with their bayonets.