Officers, recklessly erect, stood here and there along the interior of the ditch; then from the lair of each regiment flags emerged, bugles blew clear and impatient; there came an upheaval of bayonets, and the three regiments scrambled to their feet, over the ditch’s edge, and surged forward into the sunshine.

Across the fields Stephen saw guns being limbered up; and drivers lashing their horses to a gallop across a bridge.  The regiment on their left was firing by wings as it advanced, the regiment on the right had broken into a heavy run, yelling:  “Hey!  We want them guns!  Wait a second, will yer?  Where you takin’ them guns to?”

There was a new rail fence close in front of the Zouaves, barring their way to the bridge; and suddenly, from behind it, men arose with levelled muskets; and the Zouaves dropped flat to the volley that buried the fence in smoke.

“Now, boys!” cried Colonel Craig, “we’ve got to have that bridge!  So we’ll finish this business right here with the bayonet.  Come on and let’s end it now!”

Major Lent ran forward and started to climb the smoky fence; everywhere the Zouaves were swarming along the newly split rails or driving their bayonets through the smoke at the gray phantoms clustering behind.  Shots rang out, the crack of stock against stock, the ringing clamour and click of steel filled the air.

The zouave next to Stephen lurched up against him spouting blood from the neck; on the other side of him another, a sergeant, too, had gone stark mad, apparently, and was swinging his terrible sabre bayonet without regard to friend or foe; and still another man of his squad, swearing horridly, had clutched a ghostly enemy in the smoke across the fence and was trying to strangle him with his bare hands.

Stephen, bewildered by a blow which glanced from his head to his left shoulder, clung to his musket and tried to stagger forward, but a bayonet seared his right temple, tearing the scalp and letting down a rush of blood all over his face and eyes.  Blinded, the boy called instinctively:  “Father!  I’m hurt!  Could you help me!”

Colonel Craig turned white under his tan, and looked back.

“I can’t help you, my boy.  Sergeant, will you look after my son?” And he ran forward into the infernal network of bayonets, calling out:  “Get through there, boys.  We might as well clean up this mess while we’re about it.  Pull down that fence!  Never mind those men behind it!—­rush it!  Kick it over!  Now come on!  I don’t ask you to do anything that I don’t do.  Major Lent and I will take you through.  Come on and take that bridge!”

A captain, fighting back the bayonets with his sword, suddenly floundered to the fence top and clung, balanced on his belly, shouting hysterically: 

“Look at the Lancers!  Look at ’em coming!  Now, Zouaves!  Pull down the fence and give them a chance to charge the bridge!”