Captain Cunninghame, of our first troop, in consequence of a blow which had penetrated the back of his grenadier cap, fell backward on his horse's crupper insensible, but could fall no further so dense was the living press around him; and thus he remained until the place surrendered. Colonel Preston, whose horse was possessed of great spirit and fire, pressed far beyond any of us; but before he could reach the town-gate, it sprang over the bridge with him into the ditch--where the brave old boy remained up to his thighs in mud, swearing and sputtering, but in safety, until we extricated him about daybreak. Some of the houses being set on fire lit up by their lurid glare the horrors of the night attack. Taken completely by surprise, many of the French were fighting in their shirts and breeches, and were mingled in wild mêlée with the 20th and Highlanders, using their bayonets and clubbed muskets, without time to load or fire, so closely were they wedged together; but some who were in the houses opened an indiscriminate fusilade on friends and foes. This so greatly exasperated the nimble Highlanders, that in several instances they stormed these mansions, and with dirk and claymore slew without mercy all within. Every inch of ground was disputed by death and blood. The yells, cries, and hurrahs of the opposing combatants mingled with the clash of weapons that glittered in the fires around them--fires that reddened all the air; but the shouts of the French grew weaker as the cheers of the British increased. "Hurrah lor the Inniskillings!" cried we. "Hurrah for the Scots Greys!" cried the Irish. "Hurrah for Bulow's wild Jagers!" cried both regiments. A French officer, minus hat, wig, and coat, was dragged roughly out of a house by two furious Celts, who were jabbering and swearing in their native Gaelic, as if they had not made up their minds whether to kill or capture him, when he clung to my stirrup-leather, and without attempting to use the sword in his hand, breathlessly implored quarter. I regarded his pale face with sudden and stern interest, for this despairing suppliant was the commandant of the town, the Comte de Bourgneuf. I lost no time in disarming him, by snapping _his_ sword across my saddle-bow, contemptuously as he had snapped mine, and desired the Highlanders to keep him prisoner. He was dragged away, and I never saw him again. It was enough; he had _recognised me_! His whole force, being completely surrounded and hemmed in, capitulated, but so many had perished in the attack that we brought off only forty officers and four hundred rank and file, with the colours of the regiments of Dauphiné and Bretagne, one of which I captured in the count's quarters. These trophies we lodged in the camp at Warburg, after losing but few men in the whole affair. It was on that night's duty that I _last_ saw powder burned in the Seven Years' War.