The Southern skirmishers, brushed away at first, had returned swiftly, and now they were sending a rain of bullets upon the blue cavalrymen.

Many saddles were emptied, but the line went on, and struck Sherburne's troop.
Harry saw a man lean from his horse and slash at him with a sabre.
He had no sabre of his own, only a small sword, but he cut with all his might at the heavy blade instead of the man, and he felt, rather than saw, the two weapons shatter to pieces.

Then his horse struck another, and, reeling in the saddle, he snatched out a pistol and began to fire at anything that looked like a human shape.
He heard all about him a terrible tumult of shots and shouts and the thunder of horses' hoofs.

He still saw the red mist and a thousand sabres flashing through it, and he heard, too, the clash of steel on steel.

The Northern line had been stopped one minute, two minutes, and maybe three.