Fighting their way through a terrible cannonade, the French had reached the village, and burst into it; but they found all the streets barricaded, and the houses crammed with musketeers, who kept up a terrible fire upon them. Could they have brought their whole force to bear at once, the affair would soon have been over; but by some mischance the supports had been delayed, and all that the van-guard could do was to intrench themselves in the houses which they had taken, and wait for the main body to come up.
Foremost in the fight was a dashing captain of light-infantry—tall, strong, black-browed, and terrible as any chief in Homer. He had the name of being the strongest man and best swordsman in the whole regiment, and liked nothing better than a chance of showing his strength in a hand-to-hand fight. So when he found himself driven to stand behind the corner of a wall, with nothing to do but watch the enemy's bullets smashing the window-frames, or going "plug" into the timbers of the house front, it was no wonder if "Captain Dreadnaught" (as his men had justly nicknamed him) began to feel rather sulky.
"Pretty work for a soldier," growled he, under his huge black mustache; "to be knocked on the head like a caged rat by a pack of rogues whom one can't even see! Ah, if the rascals would only come out into the open, and let us have a fair chance at them!"
But better luck was at hand. All at once a tremendous shout rose high above all the din of the firing, and forward came the French supports at a run, right up the slope of the hill, and into the village. The moment the blue frocks were seen advancing, Captain Dreadnaught, too eager even to wait until he could get down to the door, leaped right out of the window into the street, waving his sword and shouting like a madman. His men followed him, and the nearest houses were cleared with a rush, and every man in them killed or made prisoner.
Just then was heard a sudden crackling and hissing, while a fierce red glare shot up over the roofs of the surrounding cottages. The shells had set the village on fire, and what with sparks and hot ashes raining down upon them, clouds of stifling smoke rolling around them on every side, and blazing timbers crashing down close to their heads, the French soldiers had anything but a comfortable time of it. However, they still held their ground unflinchingly, although their smarting eyes could hardly see to take aim, and every breath that they drew seemed to come from the mouth of a furnace.
On a sudden a strange sound began to be heard in the distance, like rain pattering on fallen leaves. Louder and nearer it came, until it swelled into a deep hollow roll that seemed to shake the very earth; and out from the smoke in front broke a mass of fierce men's faces, and horses' heads, and gleaming sabres, and gay uniforms. The Prussian cavalry were charging them. One hasty crackle of musketry, one clash and whirl of sabres, and then the wave was upon them, and passed over them; and nothing was left in its track but the dying and the dead.
Captain Dreadnaught, who had been flung aside into a doorway by the shock of the charge, was just scrambling to his feet again when he saw his color-sergeant fall under the sabre of a powerful trooper, who seized the regimental colors. With one spring the Captain was out in the middle of the street, and in another moment the Prussian went down in his turn under a blow that might have cleft a rock, while Captain Dreadnaught clutched the rescued standard, just as five of the enemy fell upon him at once.
A sudden bound foiled the charge of the foremost two, while another good sabre-cut rid him of the third. Firing his one remaining pistol through the head of one assailant, he dealt the other a blow in the face with the broken staff, which knocked out half his teeth. But in the mean time the first two had reined up and faced about, and now they both made at him at once.
Another moment and all would have been over with the daring Captain. But just at that instant a fresh shout was heard behind, and one of the Prussian troopers, struck by a bullet, fell heavily to the ground. The other turned his horse and rode off, while the second line of French infantry, against which the Prussian charge had broken itself, came on in its turn, just as the Captain, still clasping the flag, sank exhausted on the ground.