But the French, who, though wearied, were still undaunted, anticipating their foes, became the assailants. Their silent guns spoke out in thunder, the heights were shrouded in a canopy of smoke, and the bolts hurled from the batteries fell like hail on the woods, and sent such an iron shower as far forward as the hill-top where the King and his great men stood, that Von Roon prevailed on the King to ride further back. The lively French skirmishers dashed forth into the open, strove hard to reach St. Hubert, drove the German foreposts headlong down the steeps into the Mance gully, filled the high road with a rushing, clamorous crowd of fugitives, and even caused terror and commotion in the rear of Gravelotte, so vehement and unexpected was the stroke. Fortunately for the Germans, the principal bodies of troops in St. Hubert and the woods were unshaken, and their rapid fire, as well as the responses sent from the artillery, checked the violent outfall. Then, as the sun was getting low, the fresh German brigades struck in. The men of the 7th Corps went down into and over the Mance valley, and stormed up the eastern bank. The 2nd Corps, eager to win, pressed along the highway, with their drums and trumpets sounding the change, or moved on the south side. They passed onward in a tumult, and boldly tried to grapple with the strong lines of the defence. Not only their commander, Fransecky, and Steinmetz, but Von Moltke himself rode into the defile to witness and direct this huge and uproarious column of attack. But neither their numbers, and they were many, nor their valour, which was great, nor the unfaltering devotion of their officers could resist the smashing fire of cannon and mitrailleuse and chassepot which the French brought to bear upon them. Some daring spirits pressed close up towards the ditches and breastworks, a few clung to the banks and bushes on the brow of the slope near Point du Jour. A dense mass collected near St. Hubert, where Fransecky and Steinmetz, in the thick of the throng, saw the bands who had hurried to the front break off, turn and hasten rearward, while fresh troops still pressed upward through the confused crowds of fugitives. So for some time, in the twilight, the strange fight went on. As it grew darker, the outlines of Lebœuf’s cleverly-designed shelter trenches near the Moscow farm were drawn in lines of musketry fire, and gradually nothing, save the flashes of guns and rifles, could be seen in the gloom. At length, when friend could not be distinguished from foe, when no breach could be made in the French line, which, except the outpost of St. Hubert, remained what it had been in the morning, the Generals placed strong guards on their front, and stood prepared to renew the battle with the dawn. General Frossard, who had engaged all his reserves, was proud of his achievement, and not less of the foresight he displayed in providing artificial cover for his men. That had made the