Come on and let's end it _now_!" Major Lent ran forward and started to climb the smoky fence; everywhere the Zouaves were swarming along the newly split rails or driving their bayonets through the smoke at the gray phantoms clustering behind.

Shots rang out, the crack of stock against stock, the ringing clamour and click of steel filled the air.
The zouave next to Stephen lurched up against him spouting blood from the neck; on the other side of him another, a sergeant, too, had gone stark mad, apparently, and was swinging his terrible sabre bayonet without regard to friend or foe; and still another man of his squad, swearing horridly, had clutched a ghostly enemy in the smoke across the fence and was trying to strangle him with his bare hands.
Stephen, bewildered by a blow which glanced from his head to his left shoulder, clung to his musket and tried to stagger forward, but a bayonet seared his right temple, tearing the scalp and letting down a rush of blood all over his face and eyes.

Blinded, the boy called instinctively: "Father! I'm hurt! Could you help me!" Colonel Craig turned white under his tan, and looked back.
"I can't help you, my boy.

Sergeant, will you look after my son ?" And he ran forward into the infernal network of bayonets, calling out: "Get through there, boys.

We might as well clean up this mess while we're about it.