The three passed out through the shattered glass-door; up mud-steps into the farm. . . . Very far away, Peter heard a low whistle, a whistle that rose to a high-pitched scream, seemed to surge up the skies. Interminably they waited; penned in the dusk. Impotent! Down upon them, faster and faster, shrieking and howling, rushed noise. . . . They were deaf. . . . The tunnel staggered. . . . Light disappeared. . . . Glass tinkled about them. . . . Things thudded from walls to floor. . . . Noise stopped. . . . Peter heard the Weasel’s voice: “Good God, I hope that didn’t get him”: saw a shadow stumble up the steps. They waited—interminably. Murchison’s voice called: “It’s all right, Colonel.” . . . “Will you please speak to Mr. Purves, sir?” asked the unconcerned operator at the telephone. § 7 And the next night, first of October, they were relieved. The thing seemed impossible. They had always lived in the tunnel; would continue to live there till the end of time. The big man in khaki who sat talking to them had no corporeal existence. He was a joke—an elaborate joke. “Of course, Stark, I shan’t occupy _these_ headquarters.” Of course he wouldn’t. Why should he? Nobody except themselves. . . . “Hallo,” laughed a voice, “your Adjutant’s gone to sleep.” “I’m not asleep, sir.” Peter, very indignant, started up from the Weasel’s berth on which he had been sitting; dived back to his own part of the tunnel. The two Colonels heard his voice down the telephone: “Very well Corporal. If the Brigade’s gone, you can disconnect. Are the horses ready? Just coming up the road. Thanks. . . .” And then, for the first time in his life, Peter knew fear. Real crazy fear. It was midnight. Pitch-dark. Not a shell falling. But a shell might fall. If it did, what would happen to Little Willie? Little Willie was trotting up that damned road. If anything happened to Little Willie. If Jelks hadn’t fed Little Willie properly. Little Willie was the finest horse. . . . “Your coat, sir, and your spurs. I’ve packed your belt in the valise. And there’s only two cigars left, sir?” Driver Garton, smiling, proffered one of them. “Got a match?” asked Peter. § 8 The batteries of the 4th Brigade had been amazingly fortunate; got away almost without a casualty. Laughed the Colonel, as he and Peter trotted side by side through cool rain: “Well, P.J., you won’t forget Le Rutoire in a hurry.” Peter turned in his saddle, looked back towards the farm: “I should think not,” he said, and added, “Though I suppose that dug-out must have been pretty safe.” “Safe?” Stark laughed again. “Why, man, it wouldn’t have stopped a direct hit from a pip-squeak.” . . .