tly. Five times they broke through the gorge, and five times
the fire of the French infantry on the slopes above them, and the grape
of the great battery at the head of the gorge, drove the shattered
regiments back. On Soult's right, again, Foy flung back with loss an
attack by part of Picton's forces. On both the right and left, that
is, Soult was victorious, and, as he saw the wasted British lines roll
sullenly back, it is said that the French general smote his thigh in
exultation, and cried, "At last I have him!"

Almost at that moment, however, the warlike genius of Wellington
changed the aspect of the scene. He fed the attacks on Soult's right
and left, and the deepening roar of the battle at these two points
absorbed the senses of the French general. Soult's front was barred by
what was supposed to be an impassable marsh, above which a great hill
frowned; and across the marsh, and upon this hill, the centre of
Soult's position, Wellington launched the famous 52nd.

Colborne plunged with his men into the marsh; they sank at every step
above the knee, sometimes to the middle. The skirmishers shot fiercely
at them. But with stern composure the veterans of the light
division--soldiers, as Napier never tires in declaring, who "had never
yet met their match in the field"--pressed on. The marsh was crossed,
the hill climbed, and with a sudden and deafening shout--the cheer
which has a more full and terrible note than any other voice of
fighting men, the shout of the British regiment as it charges--the 52nd
dashed between Foy and Taupin. A French battalion in their path was
scattered as by the stroke of a thunderbolt. The French centre was
pierced; both victorious wings halted, and began to ebb back. Hill,
meanwhile, had crossed the Gave, and taking a wider circle, threatened
Soult's line of retreat. The French fell back, and fell back with
ever-quickening steps, but yet fighting sternly; the British, with
deafening musketry and cannonade, pressed on them. Hill quickened his
pace on the ridge along which he was pressing. It became a race who
should reach first the single bridge on the Luy-de-Bearn over which the
French must pass. The pace became a run. Many of the French broke
from their ranks and raced forward. The British cavalry broke through
some covering battalions and sabred the fugitives. A great disaster
was imminent; and yet it was avoided, partly by Soult's cool and
obstinate defence, and part