But by this time the men were pouring in behind and fast filling the ditch.  A fire-ball came crashing over the rampart, rolled down the grass slope and lay sputtering, and in the infernal glare he saw all his comrades’ faces—­every detail of their dress down to the moulded pattern on their buttons.  “Fourth!  Fourth!” some one shouted, and then voice and vision were caught up and drowned together in a hell of musketry.  He must win across or be carried he knew not where by the brute pressure of the crowd.  A cry broke from him and he ran, waving his axe, plunged down the slope and across.  On the further slope an officer caught him up and scrambled beside him.  “Whirro, Spuds!  After him, boys!” sang out Teddy Butson.  But Spuds did not hear.

He and the officer were at the top of the turf—­at the foot of the curtain.  “Ladders!  Ladders!” He caught hold of the first as it was pushed up and helped—­now the centre of a small crowd—­to plant it against the wall.  Then he fell back, mopping his forehead, and feeling his torn cheek.  What the devil were they groaning at?  Short?  The ladder too short?  He stared up foolishly.  The wall was thirty feet high perhaps and the ladder ten feet short of that or more.  “Heads!” A heavy beam crashed down, snapping the foot of the ladder like a cabbage stump.  Away to the left a group of men were planting another.  Half a dozen dropped while he watched them.  Why in the world were they dropping like that?  He stared beyond and saw the reason.  The French marksmen in the bastion were sweeping the face of the curtain with their cross fire—­those cursed bullets again!  And the ladder did not reach, after all.  O it was foolishness—­flinging away men like this for no earthly good!  Why not throw up the business and go home?  Why didn’t somebody stop those silly bugles sounding the Advance?

There they went again!  It was enough to drive a man mad!

He turned and ran down the slope a short way.  For the moment he held a grip on himself, but it was slackening, and in another half-minute he would have lost it and run in mere blind horror.  But in the first group he blundered upon were Dave and Teddy, and a score of the King’s Own, with a couple of ladders between them; and better still, they were listening to Captain Hopkins, who waved an arm and pointed to an embrasure to the left.  Nat, pulling himself up and staring with the rest, saw that no gun stood in this embrasure, only a gabion.  In a moment he was climbing the slope again; if a man must die, there’s comfort at least in company.  He bore a hand in planting the two ladders; a third was fetched—­heaven knew whence or how—­and planted beside them, and up the men swarmed, three abreast, Dave leading on the right-hand one, at the foot of which Nat hung back and swayed.  He heard Dave’s long sigh, the sigh, the sob almost, of desire answered at last.  He watched him as he mounted.  The ladders were still too short, and the leader on each must climb on the second man’s shoulders to get hand-hold on the coping.  In that moment he might be clubbed on the head, defenceless.  On the middle ladder a young officer of the 30th mounted by Dave’s side.  Nat turned his head away, and as he did so a rush of men, galled by the fire from the bastion to the right, came on him like a wave, and swept him up the first four rungs.