Meanwhile Major Dix had snatched the colors of the Second Indiana volunteers from the hands of their bearer, and bitterly swore that, with God’s help, that standard should not be disgraced that day. “He would bear it alone,” he said, “into the thick of the fight.” Roused by his words, a few men rallied around him and joined the Mississippi rifles on the plateau. The gallant Third Indiana were there, and Sherman had brought up a howitzer. Enraged at the failure of the attack on the hacienda, a fresh body of lancers now charged these troops, advancing in close column, knee to knee, and lance in rest. In breathless haste the volunteers were thrown across the narrow ridge, in two lines, meeting at an angle near the centre. Not a whisper broke the silence as the Mexicans approached, and the intrepid bearing of men whom nothing could have saved from destruction if the charge had been vigorous appalled the lancers. Within eighty yards of the lines they actually halted. At that instant the rifles were raised: a second--an awful second--elapsed. Then “Fire!” and a blaze ran round the angle. The Mexican column was destroyed. Horses and men writhed on the plain. The rear rank stood for a moment, but a single discharge from the howitzer scattered them too, and they fell back. For the first time during the day fortune seemed to favor the Americans. Hemmed in on two sides, and driven to the base of the mountain, five thousand Mexicans, horse and foot, with Ampudia’s division, were being slaughtered by nine guns, which never slackened fire. Their fate was certain; when a flag of truce from Santa Anna induced Taylor to silence his batteries. It was only a ruse. Santa Anna asked, “What does General Taylor want?” Before the answer reached him, the Mexicans had made good their escape to the rear.