"Nae nonsense aboot it, sir. Staund there," kindly insisted the old non-com., who saw that Longlegs would soon faint from loss of blood. Meantime the din inside the room was deafening. Squeals, groans, and curses rent the air. It was a battle to the death. The officer fought like a Trojan for his life, but, in the end, he was bayoneted to death. Half of the enemy were killed, the other half surrendered or jumped through the windows, smashing their legs on the hard stones below. "We’ve won, sir," reported the sergeant, rushing out of the shambles to where the pale-faced officer was standing at the top of the stair. "Good!" said the subaltern, tumbling in a heap from loss of blood. At that moment a thundering cheer was heard outside the house. It was the colonel and the other half of the battalion, who had been sent up in support. The job, however, had been well done. Old Corkleg was met at the door by the faithful sergeant. "We’ve done it, sir," said he, saluting. "Yes," said the colonel gravely, as he looked at his dead and wounded men. Then looking up, he remarked, "Where is Major Tartan?" "Killed, sir." "And Captain Hardup?" "Inside, sir, badly wounded." "What about Mr. Longlegs?" "He’s lying upstairs wounded too." "Any other casualties?" "Two other officers wounded, sir, and I think we’ve lost over a hundred men." "Sad—very sad, and some of the best," said the old colonel, turning away to hide the moisture in his eyes. "Well done, Corkleg," said the Brigadier, walking up to the scene. "Yes. Our men have done well, but our casualties have been awful." "Still, Corkleg, your men have captured the key to the whole German lines here. They will have to retire for almost a mile now. Good business! Good business! Terrible scamps, these men of yours, but heroes every time. Let me have any recommendations." Hardup and Longlegs got the D.S.O., the old sergeant and wire-cutting corporal received the Distinguished Conduct Medals, while every paper in Britain wrote columns about the gallantry of the Glesca Mileeshy. "Useful men! Useful men!" said Corkleg, on reading the appreciation in ’The Times’ a few days later. "Yes, sir," replied the adjutant. CHAPTER XVIII. THE POWER OF BREAD.