It was in vain to try to carry the rampart by the bayonet.  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.  He was known by this time as an experienced Ranger, and was taken aside by Bradstreet, the officer in command of the light infantry that with the Rangers headed the charge.

The gallant officer was wounded and breathless, and was seated upon a fallen trunk.

“Neville,” he said, “I know that you are fleet of foot and stout of heart.  I would have you return to the camp on the instant, with a message for the General.  Tell him how things are here, and that this rampart is to the utmost as impregnable as Rogers warned us.  Our men are falling thick and fast, and although full of courage, cannot do the impossible.  Beg him to order the guns to be brought up, for without them we are helpless against the enemy.”

Fritz knew this right well, and took the message.

“We shall make another charge immediately,” Bradstreet said in conclusion.  “We shall not fail to carry out our orders; but I have little hope of success.  We can do almost nothing against the French, whilst they mow us down by hundreds.  No men can hold on at such odds for long.  Go quickly, and bring us word again, for we are like to be cut to pieces.

“You are not wounded yourself?”

“No; I have escaped as by a miracle.  I will run the whole distance and take the message.  Would that the General had listened to counsel before!”

Bradstreet made a gesture of assent, but said nothing.  Fritz sped through the forest, hot and breathless, yet straining every nerve to reach his goal.

It was a blazing day where the shade of the forest was not found, and this made the fighting all the harder.  Fritz’s heart was heavy within him for the lives thrown away so needlessly.  When he reached the tent of the General, and was ushered into his presence, burning words rushed to his lips, and it was only with an effort that he commanded himself to speak calmly of the fight and deliver the message with which he was charged.