"Give them Hell, lads!" roared Coronet. And then there was a crash of bodies and of steel. The sickening plug of bayonets into flesh was heard all along the line. Still, these Bavarian men were game. They took their punishment and nobly tried to wrest the laurels of this night affair. But they were up against the toughest lot of men in the whole line. The impact was terrific, the onslaught fierce and frightful. They felt the backward push of those determined Militiamen. Their counter-assault was useless, so, with a yell, they turned and fled. The victors pursued them, routed them out of their own trenches, captured two Maxim guns and smashed them, and after denuding the knapsacks of their fleeing enemy, returned across the darkened zone into their own lines. "Well done, colonel," whispered the staff officer to Corkleg. "Your men are the right stuff," he concluded, as he disappeared into the night _en route_ for headquarters of the Brigade. Next morning the regiment counted the cost and the gains. In front of their own lines lay a hundred Germans dead; side by side lay fifty of their own; while in the rear of the trenches more dead were found. "Not bad for a first night," said Greens, peeping out. "Hardly a comedy," replied Coronet, bandaging up a wounded hand. "No, melodrama, with full effects. Corkleg’s a sound actor manager. But, I say, how can we get those dead men buried? They’ll soon smell like polecats." "Not during the day. It isn’t safe," remarked the captain, putting his cap up out of the trench on top of a stick. Crack! went a bullet. "A bull!" shouted the owner, drawing it down and surveying a battered cap badge. "Sniper, eh?"