Every gun belched forth its great shot and shell; every rifle whizzed out its sharp-singing, death-freighted messenger.

The men wavered not for an instant;--forward,--forward they went; plunged into the ditch; waded through the deep water, no longer of muddy hue, but stained crimson with their blood; and commenced to climb the parapet.

The foremost line fell, and then the next, and the next.

The ground was strewn with the wrecks of humanity, scattered prostrate, silent, where they fell,--or rolling under the very feet of the living comrades who swept onward to fill their places.

On, over the piled-up mounds of dead and dying, of wounded and slain, to the mouth of the battery; seizing the guns; bayoneting the gunners at their posts; planting their flag and struggling around it; their leader on the walls, sword in hand, his blue eyes blazing, his fair face aflame, his clear voice calling out, "Forward, my brave boys!"-- then plunging into the hell of battle before him.