simultaneously from end to end of the enemy's front. Many saddles are emptied, and many horses are plunging here and there without riders. Strong men, shot through the heart or the head, throw up their arms, and, falling backwards from their horses, are seen no more; if any life be left in them it is soon trampled out. Behind the field-battery is a solid square of infantry; the front ranks are kneeling with bayonets presented the height of the horses' chests, the rear ranks are standing with their arms at the "present." On, on, the cavalry dash, over the guns or through the narrow passages between them. Those gunners, with here and there an officer, who stand bravely to their field-pieces to the last, are only like so many chopping-blocks for the rear squadrons, who dash forward in rapid succession and keep the front ranks intact. And now the work of carnage is at hand. Crashing into the solid squares with one wild British hurrah, the rattle of bayonets and the clash of sabres are awful evidence that the death-struggle between cavalry and infantry has fairly begun. But little firing is heard beyond an occasional shot from an officer's revolver (the best of all firearms in close conflict); the smoke is not so dense, and you can plainly see the whites of your enemies' eyes, which have a strange supernatural appearance, many rolling in the agonies of death. Now and then you feel the spurting of blood on your hands and face, unconscious at the moment whether it be from your own body, your comrade's, or your foe's. Nothing intelligible is heard beyond the shrieks of the dying, the rattle of steel, the loud groan of some horse who, mortally wounded, drops on the ground, rolls on his back, and struggles with his shoes upwards, until all is over; but you cannot stay to see the end.