The soldiers drew up and fired all along their line; but of what avail was it to fire upon an enemy they could not see, whilst they themselves were a target for the grapeshot and musketballs which swept in a deadly cross fire through their ranks?
But they would not fall back.

Headed by the Rangers, who made rapid way over the rough and encumbered ground, they pressed on, undaunted by the hail of iron about them, and inflamed to fury by the fall of their comrades around them.
It was an awful scene.

It was branded upon the memory of the survivors in characters of fire.
Fritz kept in the foremost rank, unable to understand why he was not shot down.

He reached the rampart, and was halfway up, when he was clutched by the hands of a man in front, who in his death agony knew not what he did, and the two rolled into the ditch together.
For a moment all was suffocation and horror.

Unwounded, but buried and battered, with his musket torn from his grasp, Fritz struggled out through the writhing heap of humanity, and saw that the head of the column had fallen back for a breathing space, though with the evident intention of re-forming and dashing again to the charge.
The firing from the rampart still continued; but Fritz made a successful dash back to the lines, and reached them in safety.