A panic seizes the camp-followers; they run hither and thither, crying that all is lost. But detachments of the Guides and the 1st Panjab Infantry gallantly climb the steep ascent, and press doggedly up and up in face of a murderous fire from the summit. They have nearly reached the top; but what can a few hundreds, even of British troops, do against the horde of fierce warriors above them? They halt; their leader sends down word that he can barely hold his own, much less retake the Crag, and asks for supports. He is almost giving way when up comes Major Ross with more Guides and more Panjabis, who scale the precipitous bluff and almost gain the crest. They, too, are checked; the dauntless fanatics above will not yield; their numbers are continually increased, and with furious and exultant cries they withstand every assault upon their vantage ground. From the camp below Sir Neville Chamberlain watches the fight. The moment is critical; if the enemy maintain their hold on the Crag he will have to retire. It must be retaken at all costs. He orders the 101st Royal Bengal Fusiliers to the front, and more companies of the Guides; and since this is no ground for cavalry work, let the troopers dismounted share in the assault. The gallant fellows are nothing loath. Up they go, lightly as only hill-men can. Heedless of the bullets that shower among them, they force their way steadily to the crest, and then the word is given to charge. The line sweeps forward with a cheer--the infantry with fixed bayonets, the troopers with lance and sword. They dash full into the midst of the brave enemy; there is a shock, a slight check, and then the tribesmen falter, give back, and are driven down the slope.