A loud cheer answered his words, taken up by the defenders of the stockade, but now a second column of the enemy, nearly a thousand strong, came dashing along. They were fresh men, and pouring in a volley as they came, they took the little force in flank, seeming to bury it under their heavy mass, as they dashed on. The fight became a _melee_ now. Major Hughes had received a ball in the shoulder. His adjutant lay on the planking of the stand, with a bullet through his forehead, his fair hair bedabbled in a stream of blood, the groans of the wounded, the sad, pitiful cries for water, rang around him, while the heavy guns from the town and entrenchment, combined with the rattling volleys of musketry, to make a fiendish uproar, such as few had ever heard. There was no time for thought, it was a hand-to-hand struggle now, but still the loud cry, "Ye fight for your wives and children, men!" rang out, answered by a feeble cheer, from race stand and stockade, and a storm of yells from the swaying, panting crowd of assailants below. The day was dawning clear now, but the cheers from the stockade became more and more feeble, as man after man went down. No time to load, but the bayonet and clubbed musket are doing their work, doggedly, desperately, and in silence. The British force is melting away, when hark! the feeble cheers from the battered race stand are at last answered, as a long line of tall shakoes and red uniforms comes into view in rear. It was his regiment, the 150th, commanded by its senior captain, Curtis. "Hurrah, my lads, we are safe now!" shouted Hughes, as he swung himself from the rear of the stand, a desperate leap; and the next moment, without his forage-cap, his face streaked with blood, and begrimed with smoke, stood among his men. "Halt!" shouted his powerful voice, as he waved his sword in his right hand, his left hanging powerless. "Men of the 150th, prepare to charge!" The muskets came down with a clang, as of one man. "Charge;" shouted Major Hughes, and round the stockade, round the stand, with a loud howl for vengeance, came the British line. The shock was tremendous, for the men fought like fiends, while from the two positions which had been so hotly contested, the bright flashes of musketry came thick and fast, mingling their reports with the roar of the heavy guns from town and entrenchment. The men of the Gwalior Contingent were literally borne back by that terrible bayonet charge, then the whole mass became mixed, the scene more resembling an Irish row than a fight among disciplined men. Pandies and English were jumbled together, fighting for life, and for revenge more than for victory, the red glare of the guns seen through the rising mist, the shouts and cheers of the men in the race stand, maddening still further the already savage combatants below.