Vogt darted forward, quick as lightning, and slung the chain on the spokes of the wheel. It bore the strain for a moment, then there was a sharp metallic sound: the chain had snapped. The gun began to roll down the hill, faster and faster, dragging the six powerless horses behind it. One after the other they stumbled, slipped down, and were whirled away, kicking wildly, or entangled in the drag-ropes. The sergeant-major swore a terrible oath when he saw what had happened. Springing from his horse he threw the reins to Plettau, who was standing near, and ran down the hill. Chance had prevented the worst from happening. At the upper edge of the precipice there was a hollow where formerly stones may have been broken after having been quarried below; the surface was now level, and here the gun had come to a standstill. But the scene was terrible enough. The six horses lay together in a heap. Again and again they tried to raise themselves, but in such close proximity one hindered the other. Amidst the panting and snorting of the frantic animals could be heard the groans of Sickel, who was lying somewhere under one of them. Heppner had recovered his self-possession in a moment. He called the four gunners to him, and was himself the first to jump down into the hollow. Vertler, the gun-leader, was close by on his horse, but scarcely seemed able to grasp what had happened. Heppner caught sight of Sickel at once. He lay with his left leg under the Turk's body, and was shielding himself behind the neck of the gelding to avoid being struck by the hoofs of the centre horse, who was kicking furiously. "Here! Vogt and Truchsess!" commanded Heppner. "We'll pull him out." They grasped the bombardier under the arms and tried to drag him out from under the horse. But it was not so easy, and at the very moment when they stooped for a second attempt, one of the lead horses made a sudden movement which knocked Vogt down. The gunner got entangled in the drag-ropes and could not get up again. Eidechse, the centre horse, again began to kick. She had a yawning wound in the buttock from which the blood streamed, and she writhed, mad with pain. Lying on her back she turned herself to and fro, and the gleaming iron shoes flashed nearer and nearer to Vogt's head, at last striking him so that his helmet flew off and the blood gushed from beneath his fair, close-cropped hair. Klitzing saw the increasing peril, and of a sudden flung himself blindly beneath the infuriated, plunging hoofs. Like lightning it had flashed across his brain how Vogt had once shed his blood for him. Was not this the time to show his gratitude? This was perhaps the object of his existence to save the life of that other, stronger than he. And was not this his lucky day? He felt in him the strength of a giant. Yes, he would stop those terrible hoofs until his friend could get free. And in an ecstasy of confidence he threw himself like a shield between his friend and danger.