The Eighth Portuguese regiment had not yet opened its fire; it was too distant: four companies of the Forty-Fifth were engaged in an unequal combat, bravely but ineffectually disputing every inch of ground with a far superior force by which they were assailed: their brave commander, Major Gwynne, had already fallen, and these companies were on the very brink of being annihilated, when the EIGHTY-EIGHTH rushed to their assistance, and the two corps precipitated themselves into the midst of the French column, consisting of their Second, Fourth, and Thirty-Sixth regiments, and Irish brigade, and forming the advance of Reynier’s division; they received one dreadful discharge of musketry, but only one; before a second could be thrown in, they had passed through the French column, and completely overthrowing it, drove it down the mountain side with a mighty clamour and confusion, covering the ground with the dead and dying, even to the bottom of the valley. In the mean time, the three companies of the EIGHTY-EIGHTH which had been detached to drive the French riflemen from the rocks on the right, had been engaged in a severe and desperate struggle. In the advance they were exposed to the deliberate aim of practised marksmen ranged amphitheatrically rank above rank, and protected by the rocks of which they had just taken possession; arrived at the point of contest, both officers and men were soon engaged in a hand-to-hand fight. The French defended themselves with more than usual desperation, for they were aware that escape was out of the question, and that they had no alternative between repelling their assailants and being slain on the spot, or hurled headlong down the precipitous rocks on which they had established themselves. Twenty minutes, however, sufficed to decide the question, and to teach the heroes of Marengo and Austerlitz[7] that, with every advantage of position on their side, they must yield to the _Rangers of Connaught_. During this short but arduous conflict Captain Dansey was severely wounded, and Captain Dunne had a hair-breadth escape of swelling the return of killed. He had made a cut with his sabre at one of the French riflemen, but struck short, the man being above the reach of his weapon; the Frenchman’s bayonet, on the other hand, was within a few inches of Captain Dunne’s breast, and his finger on the trigger; one word was shouted by Captain Dunne—it was the name of a serjeant in the regiment, “BRAZEL!” He heard the call through all the din of battle, and rushing forwards, although he fell upon his face in making the lunge, buried his halberd in the Frenchman’s body, and rescued his officer from certain death.