"_Demeurez là!_" cried the Gaul in dismay, while he fired his piece in concert with three or four others. A Highlander fell in the stream wounded, and was sucked into the linn, where he perished instantly. His comrades let fly a rattling volley, and pressed boldly forward. The water rose nearly to their waists, but the Celts had an advantage over their comrades in trowsers. Raising the thick tartan folds of their kilts, they crossed the river, keeping all their clothing, the hose excepted, perfectly dry. The Nive, at the place where they crossed, was several yards wide, and the current, on the surface of which some pieces of thin ice floated, was intensely cold; but the hardy Highlanders pressed onward, grasping each other by the hand, and crossed safely, but not without several unlooked-for delays. The bed of the river was pebbly, slippery as glass, and full of holes, which caused them to stumble every moment, and a scaling-ladder was nearly carried away by the stream. The rocks were steep and precipitous, rising to the height of several yards abruptly from the water. The ladders were planted among the pebbles, and when one point of the rock was gained, they had to draw them up before they could reach another, and so arrive at the foot of the sloping bastion which was now bristling with bayonets. By the time the escalade approached the outworks, every soldier in the château was at his post, and the cannon had begun to belch their iron contents, which, however, passed harmlessly over the heads of the assailants. The fierce northern blood of the latter was now roused in good earnest, and their natural courage seemed only to receive a fresh stimulus from the din of war around them. Accustomed from infancy to climb like squirrels, the Scotsmen clambered up the rocks, grasping weeds and tufts of grass,—finding assistance and support where other men would have found none; and in less space of time than I take to record it, they were all at the base of the bastion. "Up and on! Forward, my brave Highland hearts!" cried Ronald Stuart, springing recklessly up the perilous ladder, waving his sword and feeling in his mind the wild—almost mad, sensations of chivalry and desperation, which no man can imagine save one who has led a forlorn hope. "Death or glory! Hurrah! the place is our own!" At that moment a twenty-four pounder was run through the embrasure and discharged above his head. It was so close, that the air of the passing ball almost stunned him; he felt the hot glow of the red fire on his cheek, and the deadly missile whistled over his bonnet, and boomed away into the darkness. Several fire-balls were tossed over the works by the French. These burned with astonishing brilliancy and splendour wherever they alighted,—even in the middle of water, where they roared, sputtered and hissed like devils, but would not be quenched until they burned completely away.