It was now eleven o’clock, and it seemed impossible that the English could much longer withstand the terrible assault. They were driven back exhausted by the long struggle; hundreds of their best and bravest had fallen heroically; and the enemy was still pouring fresh legions into the fray. The fog and drizzling rain obscured the scene of action, so that it was impossible for the Generals to concert a scheme of operations, or even to know accurately the state of affairs: it was rather a series of battles than one action. Lord Raglan and his staff were eagerly watching the fray, but unable to control the movements of the troops. Nothing could save the entire army but the self-devotion and valour of the men: tactics were unavailable, and generalship useless. Now, however, came the crisis of the struggle. General Bosquet had by this time discovered that the threatened attack on Balaklava was but a feint; and warned by the thunder of cannon and the roll of musketry of the real point of attack, hastened to, the rescue. Two troops of horse-artillery were speedily despatched, and took up a position whence they could effectively play upon the Russian guns. Hastening to the spot, with his dashing regiments of Zouaves and Chasseurs Indigènes, he precipitated himself upon the left flank of the Russian hordes. General Canrobert, too, at the same time, ordered up several French regiments of the line to the assistance of the English Second Division, on the left. Wearied, wounded, and almost disheartened, the English heroes were gradually giving ground to the foe, when their ears caught, above the din of battle, the rapid tread and loud shouts of advancing troops, and perceived through the mist the forms of massive columns, moving at a rapid pace, whether friends or foes they scarcely knew. In a few moments, a joyous “Hurrah!” rang from the broken lines, and a mighty cheer was echoed through the fog: then they knew the French were there to help them. A new life seemed to animate them; no longer they retreated, but summoning up the last flashes of their failing fire, charged the foe anew. The Russians, staggered by the fresh assault, surprised by the sudden appearance of the warriors of Africa, hesitated and gave way. Then, uniting their ranks, the English and the French, with mingled shouts, loud “Hurrahs!” and “Vive l’Empereur!” dashed into the paralyzed columns, and drove the bayonets home through many a Russian breast. The Zouaves leaped through the tangled brushwood, and, with wondrous activity, scattered the confused and retreating battalions. Then came the tremendous fire from the ships in the harbour, and the guns from the heights, which almost swept them from the field, and forced them for a brief space to pause in their career. It was but for an instant. Renewing their charge, English and French once more dashed at the flying foe, and at the bayonet’s point, with fearful slaughter, drove them, a disorderly mob, down the hill-side.