Brent, standing in the center of the redoubt, felt a rising excitement grip him, as the wave of British rolled nearer. As well as his instruments allowed he had cared for the wounded. There was nothing left for him to do but go with the tide. If it came to bayonet and bayonet the British must conquer, for not one provincial in four was equipped with the blade. He looked speculatively at a gun discarded by a dead man. As on the two previous occasions, the storm burst suddenly. One tremendous blast of gunfire issued from the redoubt, and for a third time the smoke swirled back and dimmed the setting sun. Brent choked and closed his eyes. The effect of that volley was only too audible to his ears. He wondered how the attackers, so openly exposed and so indiscriminately stricken down, could continue on. But continue on they did. A shout of warning echoed in the redoubt and a rush was made toward the south parapet. The British, right under the outside scarp, set up a vigorous huzzah. Bayonet tips glinted over the top. The scene began to partake of disorder and confusion. Amid the choking dust Brent saw his comrades rushing toward the focal point of conflict. A British officer, his scarlet facings showing dimly through the smoke, sprang over at the head of his company and died immediately with innumerable bullets in his body. But he was the advance of an irresistible wave. Behind him came a dozen and behind the dozen arrived the full weight of a battalion, all its members pressing vigorously to the front, firing no shot, but extending the steel blade. Now the clamor rose toward the heavens. A few irregular shots answered for the provincials, and that was the end of their powder and shot. Swords flashed upward and hoarse voices cried out the gallant names of their dead. Gunstock banged gunstock and strange oaths were sworn. Men fell and were engulfed in the rapidly overflowing area. The pressure of the newly arriving British companies inexorably forced the provincials backwards toward the rear of the redoubt. Isaac Brent struggled in the crowd to maintain his footing. His heart pumped unusually strong and his temper turned warmer and warmer. The fury of those dogged men around him seemed to pass over and infuse him with a reckless resentment. Directly in front a British bayonet plunged forward and impaled a lad barely beyond the first score years. The attack drove the boy against Brent; he heard the lad sob and saw him slip down, releasing his gun. In one vigorous move Brent had secured that gun and had raised it. He found himself lagging in the retreat. About him were red-coated men, mustached men, all sweating profusely and gaping for the dust-laden air. One such came onward swiftly and presented his bayonet at the doctor. “Here’s a tonic, you cursed rebel!” he panted. “Take it!” “I need no tonic!” said the doctor.