Friedrich's vehement rallyings and urgings, gradually lose
ground,--back at last to Kunersdorf and the Kuhgrund again. The Loudon
grenadiers, and exclaimed masses of fresh Russians, are not to be
broken, but advance and advance. Fancy the panting death-labors, and
spasmodic toilings and bafflings, of those poor Prussians and their
King! Nothing now succeeding; the death-agony now come; all hearts
growing hopeless; only one heart still seeing hope. The Spitzberg is
impossible; tried how often I know not. Finck, from the Alder Waste,
with his Infantry, attacks, and again attacks; without success: "Let the
Cavalry go round, then, and try there. Seidlitz we have not; you Eugen
of Wurtemberg lead them!" Eugen leads them (cuirassiers, or we will
forget what); round by the eastern end of the Muhlberg; then westward,
along the Alder Waste; finally southward, against the Russian flank,
himself foremost, and at the gallop for charging:--Eugen, "looking
round, finds his men all gone," and has to gallop the other way, gets
wounded to boot. Puttkammer, with Hussars, then tried it; Puttkammer was
shot dead, and his Hussars too could do nothing.

Back, slowly back, go the Prussians generally, nothing now succeeds with
them. Back to the Kuhgrund again; fairly over the steep brow there; the
Russians serrying their ranks atop, rearranging their many guns. There,
once more, rose frightful struggle; desperate attempt by the fordone
Prussians to retake that Height. "Lasted fifteen minutes, line to line
not fifty yards asunder;" such musketry,--our last cartridges withal.
Ardent Prussian parties trying to storm up; few ever getting to the top,
none ever standing there alive one minute. This was the death-agony of
the Battle. Loudon, waiting behind the Spitzberg, dashes forward now,
towards the Kuhgrund and our Left Flank. At sight of which a universal
feeling shivers through the Prussian heart, "Hope ended, then!"--and
their solid ranks rustle everywhere; and melt into one wild deluge,
ebbing from the place as fast as it can.

It is towards six o'clock; the sweltering Sun is now fallen low and
veiled; gray evening sinking over those wastes. "N'Y A-T-IL DONC PAS
UN BOUGRE DE BOULET QUI PUISSE M'ATTEINDREE (Is there no one b---- of a
ball that can reach me, then)?" exclaimed Friedrich in despair. Such a
day he had never thought to see. The pillar of the State, the Prussian
Army itself, gone to chaos in this manner. Friedrich still passionately