On the 19th this wretched bulwark also was stormed, and thrown down as easily as a fowler's net. The carcasses of horses now replaced upon the graves the monuments of mourning for the peaceful dead. After the battle part of the French prisoners were confined in this place. The church of St. John, which stands in it, had, as early as the month of May, been converted into an hospital, which, ever since the beginning of October, was crowded with sick. It could hold no more; the sick and prisoners were therefore intermingled, and lay down pell-mell among the graves. What had hitherto been spared was now completely destroyed. In this case, indeed, dire necessity pleaded a sufficient excuse. Who could find fault with Distress and Despair if they resorted to the only means that could afford them the slightest alleviation? Who could grudge them a shelter in the cold autumnal nights, even though they sought it in the dreary abode of mouldering corpses? Every vault which it was possible for them to open was converted into a chamber and dwelling-place, which at least was preferable to a couch between hillocks soaked with rain or covered with hoar frost. They descended into the deepest graves, broke open the coffins, and ejected their tenants, to procure fire-wood to warm their frozen limbs. I myself saw a French soldier who had fallen among a heap of coffins piled up to the height of more than twelve feet; and, unable to clamber up again, had probably lain there several days, and been added by Death to the number of his former victims. The appearance of the skulls, before so carefully concealed from the view of the living, now thrown out of the coffins into the graves, was truly ghastly.