Red tongues of flame burst from the smoke of our guns; whiz came the fiery rockets, darting into their ranks, scorching, blinding, and burning in their course; humming shells dropped among them with terrible destruction; but the Old Guard pressed on, and began to mount the ridge. Ney’s horse fell--the _fifth_ killed under him that day, and the “bravest of the brave,” went forward on foot. Alas, would that it had been to death! Our Guards were lying down to avoid the hurricane from the French artillery. A shell dropped in one of the squares, and Colonel Colquitt, picking it up, fizzing and fuming, walked to the edge and flung it outside to burst harmlessly. Another officer, mortally wounded, said faintly: “I should like to see the colours of the regiment again before I quit them for ever”: they were brought and waved round his body, and with a smile, he was carried away, to die. [Illustration: LA HAYE SAINTE.] It was men like those that the oncoming columns had to face, and batteries as famous as those of Bull and Bolton, of Norman Ramsay, Whinyates, and Webber Smith, with guns double shotted and served as on parade; no need to sight so carefully, for the moving target is a wide one, and they hit in every time! Now the skirmishers run out, shouting and firing as before, and when they have said their say, they fall back leaving all clear for the others; but the columns seem to get no nearer, though they are marching steadily; front rank after front rank is blown to shreds--_that is why they appear stationary_! The gunners have done their work; the guns recoil, and are left there: it is the turn of the infantry now, and the time has come for that historic signal, “Up, Guards, and at ’em!” which in reality was never said. But whatever the word was, they _do_ “up,” and they _do_ “at ’em”; and again it is bayonet to bayonet, and man to man. One Welsh giant, named Hughes, six feet seven inches in height, is seen to knock over a dozen of the Old Guard single handed; the redcoats and the blue-coats mingle for a moment and the blue-coats melt away. The second column, a little behind the other, is in good order: it has suffered less from the cannonade, and is full of fire and fury; but so also are our 52nd lads, who advance down the slope with three tremendous cheers. Colborne is leading, and when they get abreast of the column he cries-- “Halt! Mark time!” The men touch in to their left, and regain their dressing; Colborne’s horse is shot, and he comes forward wiping his mouth with a white handkerchief, still wearing Ensign Leeke’s blue boat-cloak. “Right shoulders forward!” [Illustration: THE UNION BRIGADE CAPTURING THE FRENCH GUNS AT WATERLOO. (_From the Picture by W. B. Wollen, R.I._)] The regiment swings round, and, four deep, faces the column’s flank two hundred yards away. “Forward, 52nd--charge!” and the Foot Guards, who are back on the ridge again, behold a noble spectacle.