I glanced hurriedly at the spot where the bullet had struck him. The small hole could hardly be seen against the brown skin, just at the point of the left buttock. "Just wait here for us; I shall be back in a moment." I wanted to see if to the east of the village I could note anything interesting, and I turned round towards my other troopers, whose horses were panting behind us. I was horrified to see Corporal Madelaine's face streaming with blood. "It is nothing, sir ...; it passed in front of my nose." He wiped his face with the back of his hand. It had indeed been grazed by a bullet. One half-inch more, and the good fellow's nose would have been carried off. Fortunately the skin was hardly broken. Madelaine went on: "It's nothing; ... but my mare...." He had dismounted, and with a look of distress showed me his horse's blood-stained thigh. "Attraction" was the name of his pretty and delicate little grey mare, which he loved and cared for passionately. A bullet had pierced her thigh right through, and the blood had flowed down her leg. I calmed him by saying, "Come, come; it will be nothing. Go on foot behind that wood, and get quietly under cover with Lemaitre. I will soon come and join you." And I went off with Vercherin, Finet, and Wattrelot. I tried to get round to the right of Courgivault. But now that the first shots had been fired we were not allowed to come nearer. As soon as we appeared a violent fusillade burst from the outskirts of the village, which forced us to beat a rapid retreat. There was no longer any doubt about it; Courgivault was occupied, and occupied in strength. Under the shelter of a bank I quickly dismounted, and Wattrelot took my horse's bridle. Whilst I knelt on one knee and on the other wrote my report for the Colonel, Vercherin and Finet, at an interval of 100 yards, kept a good look-out on the ridge for the enemy's movements. I handed my message to Wattrelot: "Take this to the Colonel, and quickly. I will wait here for the brigade." I then rode slowly to the corner of the wood, where Madelaine and Lemaitre were posted, whilst Wattrelot went off at a trot across the stubble. But a sad sight was awaiting me. Lemaitre was standing in great grief over poor "Ramier," lying inert on the ground and struggling feebly with death. His eyes were already dull and his legs convulsed. Every now and then he shuddered violently. I looked at Lemaitre, who felt as if he were losing his best friend. And, indeed, is not our horse our best friend when we are campaigning--the friend that serves us well to the very last, that saves us time and again from death, and carries us until he can carry us no longer? I dismounted and threw the reins to Lemaitre: