We, the cuirassiers, presented a front of about forty files only, while the body we were to break through, had its flanks so far extended, that they could have overlapped twenty times our number. In the rear rank, I was Lord Dundrennan's covering file. The foe, a black and solid line of dragoons, after firing from their carbines a volley, by which we lost several brave gentlemen (for their fire was given by a triple rank), got gradually into a trot, slinging their fire-arms and drawing their swords, as they advanced with all their trumpets sounding. As the speed of our horses increased, so did our spirit fire up at the emergency and the danger; and with the confidence we felt, of being equal to anything that men might essay, we became closer and closer, more firm and compact in our formation, and more furious in our speed. A wild enthusiasm seemed to spread from heart to heart along our little line; and had even a coward been there, he must have caught a glow of courage from the glorious spirit around him. 'Close up--touch in--close up!' cried old Patrick Gordon, when the hot fire thinned our ranks and, as the old Border ballad says,-- 'Closing up on every side, No slackness there was found; Though many a gallant gentleman Lay gasping on the ground' Those who had the misfortune to fall, or be unhorsed, were doomed to immediate death; for the rear squadrons of the Marquis de Toneins trampled everything flat upon the turf. Goring our horses, riding knee to knee at racing speed, with our teeth set and our swords uplifted we rushed upon the Austrians. The Chevalier Livingstone was shot through the left thigh, but kept his place till his boot was full of blood; Patrick Gordon was wounded, and a ball took the plume from my helmet; but the foe had not time to fire another shot; for, with a reckless shout we were upon them,--and the shock of our meeting was tremendous, forcing many of the chargers to reel back upon their haunches. 'Vive le Roi! St. Andrew! St. Andrew!' cried the Marquis of Gordon; and while we all echoed the battle-cry of the Garde du Corps Ecossais, we bore the enemy back--cutting, hewing, slashing, and throwing horses and men to the earth. I felt many intended cuts and blows glide off my helmet, given I knew not by whom; and in the crush, confusion, and fury of the conflict, I actually forgot all about Pappenheim for a time, and scarcely knew at whom to strike, but hewed away at random. Swords were gleaming and clashing on all sides of me; and as they were whirled about, drops of blood were seen to fly through the air.