For above an hour the frightful carnage continued, fresh troops continually advancing, but scarcely a foot of ground was made; the earth belched forth its volcanic fires, and that terrible barrier did no man pass.

In turn the bravest and the boldest would leap into the whizzing flame, and the taunting cheers of the enemy triumphed in derision at the effort.
"Stormers to the front! Only the bayonet! trust to nothing but the bayonet!" cried a voice whose almost cheerful accents contrasted strangely with the dead-notes around, and Gurwood, who led the forlorn hope of the Fifty-second, bounded into the chasm; all the officers sprang simultaneously after him; the men pressed madly on; a roll of withering musketry crashed upon them; a furious shout replied to it.

The British, springing over the dead and dying, bounded like blood-hounds on their prey.
Meanwhile the ramparts trembled beneath the tramp of the light division, who, having forced the lesser breach, came down upon the flank of the French.

The garrison, however, thickened their numbers, and bravely held their ground.

Man to man now was the combat.