In the Saxon quarter, certain Austrian regiments of horse would not charge at all; merely kept firing from their carbines, and when the time came ran.
As for the Saxons, they have been beaten these two hours; that is to say, hopeless these two hours, and getting beaten worse and worse.

The Saxons cannot stand, but neither generally will they run; they dispute every ditch, morass and tuft of wood, especially every village.

Wrecks of the muddy desperate business last, hour after hour.

"I gave my men a little rest under the garden walls," says one Saxon Gentleman, "or they would have died, in the heat and thirst and extreme fatigue: I would have given 100 gulden [10 pounds Sterling] for a glass of water." [ _Helden-Geschichte,_ ubi supra.] The Prussians push them on, bayonet in back; inexorable, not to be resisted; slit off whole battalions of them (prisoners now, and quarter given); take all their guns, or all that are not sunk in the quagmires;--in fine, drive them, part into the Mountains direct, part by circuit thither, down upon the rear of the Austrian fight: through Hausdorf, Seifersdorf and other Mountain gorges, where we hear no more of them, and shall say no more of them.

A sore stroke for poor old Weissenfels; the last public one he has to take, in this world, for the poor man died before long.