Robert saw everything clearly.  His heart sank for a moment, and then leaped up again.  Many of his own had fallen, but a great red curve was advancing.  It was the British regulars, the best troops in the charge that Europe could furnish, and they would surely carry the wooden wall.  As far as he could see, in front and to left and right, their bayonets flashed in the sun, and a cry of admiration sprang to his lips.  Forward they came, their line even and beautiful, and then the tempest beat upon them.  The entire French fire was concentrated upon the concave red lines.  The batteries poured grape shot upon them and a sleet of lead cut through flesh and bone.  Gaps were torn in their ranks, but the others closed up, and came on, the American Colonials on their flanks charging as bravely.

Robert suddenly remembered a vision of his, vague and fleeting then, but very real now.  He was standing here at Ticonderoga, looking at the battle as it passed before him, and now it was no vision, but the truth.  Had Tayoga’s Manitou opened the future to him for a moment?  Then the memory was gone and the terrific drama of the present claimed his whole mind.

The red lines were not stopped.  In the face of awful losses they were still coming.  They were among the trees where the men were entangled with the boughs or ran upon the wooden spikes.  Often they tripped and fell, but rising they returned to the charge, offering their breasts to the deadly storm that never diminished for an instant.

Robert walked back and forth in his little space.  Every nerve was on edge.  The smoke of the firing was in eye, throat and nostril, and his brain was hot.  But confidence was again supreme.  “They’ll come!  They’ll come!  Nothing can stop them!” he kept repeating to himself.

Now the Colonials on the flank pressed forward, and they also advanced through the lines of the regulars in front and charged with them.  Together British and Americans climbed over the mass of fallen trees in face of the terrible fire, and reached the wooden wall itself, where the sleet beat directly upon their faces.  For a long distance behind them, their dead and wounded lay in hundreds and hundreds.

Many of them tried to scale the barrier, but were beaten back.  Now Montcalm, St. Luc, De Levis, Bourlamaque and all the French leaders made their mightiest efforts.  The eye of the French commander swept the field.  He neglected nothing.  Never was a man better served by his lieutenants.  St. Luc was at every threatened point, encouraging with voice and example.  Bourlamaque received a dangerous wound, but refused to quit the field.  Bougainville was hit, but his hurt was less severe, and he took no notice of it, two bullets pierced the hat of De Levis, St. Luc took a half dozen through his clothes and his body was grazed three times, but his gay and warlike spirit mounted steadily, and he hummed his little French air over and over again.