Meanwhile the laager was literally zoned with fire and enveloped with smoke; yet within it no sound was heard save the rattling roar of the musketry, the clatter of the breech-blocks, and triumphant bagpipes of the Highlanders, with an occasional groan or exclamation of agony as a bullet found its billet. In the fury of their advance and struggles to get onward over their own dead and dying, the Zulus from the rear would break through the fighting line, jostling and dashing each other aside, and rush yelling on, until they too bit the dust. The booming of the Gatling guns and the dread hiss of the blazing rockets were heard ever and anon amid the medley of other sounds, and for half an hour the showers of lead and iron tore through and through the naked masses, where the places of the fallen were instantly taken by others. By half-past six the shrill yells of the Zulus died away; but in mute despair and fury they still struggled in hope to storm the laager, when, if once within its defences, the fate of all would be sealed. Four times like a living sea they flung themselves against it, and four times by sheets of lead and iron they were hurled back from the reddened bayonet's point, while some remained in the open, firing from behind the bloody piles of their own dead, which lay in awful lines or swathes of black bodies with white shields, a hundred yards apart, in rear of each other. At last the survivors gave way, and all fled in confusion. 'Forward, the Mounted Infantry!' cried Lord Chelmsford. And these, under Captain Barrow and Hammersley, sprang with alacrity to their saddles, slinging their rifles as they filed out of the laager. 'Front form squadron!' was now the order, and the sections of fours swept round into line. 'Come on, my lads!' cried Hammersley, as he unsheathed his sword and dug the spurs into his horse; 'forward--trot, gallop! By Jove! an hour of this work '"Is worth an age without a name!"' And away went the Mounted Infantry over the terrible swathes at a swinging pace. Like most of the few officers of that peculiar and extemporised force, Vivian Hammersley had been accustomed to cross country and ride to hounds, and to deem that the greatest outdoor pleasure in life. Tattoo, Florian's horse, fortunately for him in the work he had to do that evening, proved to be a tried Cape shooting-horse, accustomed to halt the moment his rein is dropped, and to stand like a rock when his rider fires. An experienced shooting-horse requires no sign from his master when required to stand, and on hearing a sound or stir in the bush is alert as a dog scenting danger or game. Florian loved the animal like a friend, and often shared his beer with him, as Homer tells us the Greek warriors of old shared their wine with their battle-chargers; we suppose it is only human nature that we must love something that is in propinquity with us.