At this, the 79th (Highland) Regiment springs forward, to mount the brow of the fatal hill, swept as it is, with this storm of shot and shell and musket-balls. Up, through the lowering smoke, lit with the Enemy's incessant discharges in the woods beyond, the brave Highlanders jauntily march, and, with Cameron and their colors at their head, charge impetuously across the bloody hill-crest, and still farther, to the front. But it is not in human nature to continue that advance in the teeth of the withering fire from Jackson's batteries, strengthened, as they are, by Pelham's and Kemper's. The gallant fellows fall back, rally again, advance once more, retire again, and at last,--the heroic Cameron being mortally wounded,--fall back, in confusion, under the cover of the hill. And now, while Quinby's Regiment, on another ridge, more to the left, is also again engaging the Enemy, the 69th New York, led by the fearless Corcoran, dashes forward, up the Henry House hill, over the forbidding brow, and beyond. As the brave Irishmen reach the abandoned batteries, the hoarse roar of cannon, the sharp rattle of musketry-volleys, the scream of shot and shell, and the whistling of bullets, is at once deafening and appalling, while the air seems filled with the iron and leaden sleet which sweeps across the scorched and blasted plateau of the Henry House. Nobly the Irish Regiment holds its ground for a time; but, at last, it too falls back, before the hurtling tempest. The fortunes of the day are plainly turning against us. Time is also against us--as it has been all along--while it is with the Enemy. It is past 3 o'clock.