The sergeant-major signalled to the hill. A moment later the limbers were racing over the shell-swept field. The survivors of the battery sighed with relief as they fired away their last shells. * * * * * Far off upon a height the divisional artillery commander was watching them through his glasses. "Why isn't that battery withdrawn?" he asked irritably. He turned to give an order, then checked himself. "No, it's too late," he said. He continued to watch them. * * * * * The guns were limbered up in a storm of shells. The subaltern threw himself upon a horse that came handy. The detachments waited for the order to retire. "The battery will _advance_--in line!--Gallop!" he yelled. He spurred his horse straight for the infantry. Behind him his three guns bumped and leaped over the inequalities of the stubble-field. Onward they raced. They tore through the approaching infantry as though they were mere phantoms, regardless of those that fell before their rush. Overhead the shrapnel burst less frequently. They hurled themselves down into a depression and up again on the rise of a little ridge. One or two brown soldiers were lying prone on it and firing rapidly. "Halt!--Action front!--At the infantry!--Point blank!" yelled the subaltern. In front were the grey-uniformed soldiers, swarms of them, not a hundred yards away, rushing on them with gleaming bayonets. Working like madmen, the artillery-men reversed the guns, loaded, aimed, fired. Again and again the guns spoke. The squads worked like men doomed, anxious only to take toll for their own lives. The shells, set to zero, burst almost at the muzzles of the guns. Their bullets tore through the groups of infantrymen, mowed them down. They seemed to melt away. Behind him the subaltern heard a loud cheer. The beaten infantry were being rallied, led again to the attack. In front of his guns the enemy surged forward, only to be swept away. Hesitation was manifest among them. Men turned and ran back. The rearward movement spread. He exulted in their confusion. As his guns fired their last rounds, a line of brown infantry rushed past them with a mighty shout, their bayonets levelled at the charge. The grey infantry broke and fled. The subaltern looked round, wiping the acrid smoke-grit from his eyes. Behind him, down the hill-side where his battery had fought, masses of brown infantry were advancing. The tide had turned. * * * * * Far away, the divisional artillery commander took his glasses from his eyes. "By G--d! that chap's saved 'em!" he said. He wrote out an order and despatched it. * * * * *