And--and there is Schulenburg, for one thing, stretching himself out eastwards (rightwards) to get hold of Hermsdorf; thinking this an opportunity for the manoeuvre.

"Forward!" cries Romer; and his thirty Squadrons, like bottled whirlwind now at last let loose, dash upon Schulenburg's poor ten (five of them of Schulenburg's own regiment),--who are turned sideways too, trotting towards Hermsdorf, at the wrong moment,--and dash them into wild ruin.

That must have been a charge! That was the beginning of hours of chaos, seemingly irretrievable, in that Prussian right wing.
For the Prussian Horse fly wildly; and it is in vain to rally.

The King is among them; has come in hot haste, conjuring and commanding: poor Schulenburg addresses his own regiment, "Oh, shame, shame! shall it be told, then ?" rallies his own regiment, and some others; charges fiercely in with them again; gets a sabre-slash across the face,--does not mind the sabre-slash, small bandaging will do;--gets a bullet through the head (or through the heart, it is not said which); [_Helden-Geschichte, _ i.

899.] and falls down dead; his regiment going to the winds again, and HIS care of it and of other things concluding in this honorable manner.