Hancock had come to take the place of Sickles, and he was drawing every man he could to his support.

The afternoon was waning, but the battle was still at its height.

Men were falling by thousands, and generals, colonels, majors, officers of all kinds were falling with them.

The Southerners had not encountered such resistance in any other great battle, and the ground, moreover, was against them.
Yet the grim fighter, Longstreet, never ceased to push on his brigades.
The combat was now often face to face, and sharpshooters, hidden in every angle and hollow of the earth, picked off men by hundreds.
The great rocky mass known as the Devil's Den was filled with Northern sharpshooters and for a long time they stung the Southern flank terribly, until a Southern battery, noticing whence the deadly stream of bullets issued, sprayed it with grape and canister until most of the sharpshooters were killed, while those who survived fled like wolves from their lairs.
The day was now passing, but Harry could see no decrease in the fury of the battle.

Longstreet was still hurling his men forward, and they were met with cannon and rifle and bayonet.