The materials which had been flung from the summit cumbered the steps and were heaped up higher than the wall.

Matho turned back amid the ruins to summons his companions.
He perceived their crests scattered over the multitude; they were sinking and their wearers were about to perish; he dashed towards them; then the vast wreath of red plumes closed in, and they soon rejoined him and surrounded him.

But an enormous crowd was discharging from the side streets.

He was caught by the hips, lifted up and carried away outside the ramparts to a spot where the terrace was high.
Matho shouted a command and all the shields sank upon the helmets; he leaped upon them in order to catch hold somewhere so as to re-enter Carthage; and, flourishing his terrible axe, ran over the shields, which resembled waves of bronze, like a marine god, with brandished trident, over his billows.
However, a man in a white robe was walking along the edge of the rampart, impassible, and indifferent to the death which surrounded him.
Sometimes he would spread out his right hand above his eyes in order to find out some one.

Matho happened to pass beneath him.