I had hardly returned to the squadron when I saw a sight I can never forget. At a turn in the road three horsemen came towards us covered with blood. I recognised F., the officer of _Chasseurs d'Afrique_, who had been sent out to reconnoitre the evening before. He had lost his cap, and had his head bound up with a blood-stained handkerchief. His left arm was likewise slung in an improvised bandage tied round his neck. He was followed by two men who were also covered with wounds. Their eyes shone bright and resolute in their feverish faces. One of them, having no scabbard, was still holding his sword, which was twisted and stained with blood. We pulled up instinctively and saluted. "I haven't been able to reach the Marne," said F., with disappointment in his voice. "But, being fired upon by their outposts in the dark, we charged and got through, and then charged through two villages under a hail of bullets; and again we had to charge their outposts to get back. You see, ... I have brought back two men out of eight, and all my horses have been killed.... These horses"--pointing to his own--"are those of three Uhlans we killed so as not to have to come home on foot." Certainly they were not riding the pretty little animals that make such excellent mounts for our _Chasseurs d'Afrique_, but were perched on three big mares with the heavy German equipment. "But," F. repeated in a tone of vexation, "I wasn't able to get to the Marne.... There were too many of them for us." We pressed his unwounded hand warmly. Poor F.! Brave fellow! Not many days afterwards he was to meet a glorious death charging once more, with three Chasseurs, to rescue one of his men who had been wounded. A more perfect type of cavalryman--I might say, of knight--was never seen. He sleeps now, riddled with lance wounds, in the plains of Champagne.