When the French soldiers found that the town was falling by escalade on the south side, and that the castle was lost to them, they made an attempt to retake the latter by an old gate, leading towards the town; that gate was pierced by their musketry in numberless places. I never saw a target better covered with holes. The third division had in return twice discharged a gun through it, which made two large holes. An old handspike was placed under its breech to depress it, and remained precisely in the same way three days afterwards. The scaling-ladders were well placed, _five_ quite close together, against an old round tower. Many slain soldiers had evidently been pushed from off the parapet, and rolled nearly fifty yards down the hill; some lay with heads battered to pieces, whilst others were doubled up, looking scarcely human, and their broken limbs twisted in all directions. The third division had been obliged to cross the broken bridge over the small river Revellas, rank entire, (amidst a shower of grape-shot, bullets, and bursting of shells,) and during the work of death to drag the unwieldy ladders up a rugged hill, to plant them against the walls: their first effort failed; many of the enemy then, contrary to General Philippon's orders, evacuated the Castle, and went to assist at the breaches. At this moment, Lieutenant-Colonel Ridge of the fifth regiment called on an officer of his corps, "There, you mount one ladder, and I will lead up the other. Come on Fifth, I am sure that you will follow your commanding officer." _He was killed; but the place was carried!_ Let us pause and reflect that this act of heroism was executed after a long and fearful struggle, high walls and defeat staring them in the face.