The C.O. at once grasped the situation, drew his revolver, and shot the spy dead. It was as though that bullet had been fired straight into a mountain of gunpowder. With a terrific crash German guns opened fire. Simultaneously, on front and flank, rifles and machine-guns blazed out. A German night attack is no question of feeling a way in open order until the enemy's outposts are driven in; it comes down like a smith's hammer on the anvil. The Coldstreamers, with miraculous discipline, swung round and got into a kind of line with the outposts already there, then continued retirement to the town at the double. The outpost line was crushed through almost in a moment like tissue paper, and before anyone could grasp what was happening the Germans were pouring their massed columns into the town. Thus began perhaps the most critical and certainly the most remarkable fight in which British regiments have ever been engaged. Tired out, the men tumbled out of the houses; three privates and a corporal here, a dozen men and a sergeant there, a subaltern, a private and a machine-gun at another corner, half a dozen men at two first-floor windows somewhere else. And the only light came from the flash of the rifles. There was no idea of forming ranks, even had it been possible. Slowly, steadily up the streets the great German mammoth crept, and, like tigers at their prey, the men of the Guards sprang at head and flanks, worrying with grim-set teeth to the heart of the beast. Now the British machine-guns opened fire straight upon the head of the column, swept it away, swept the succeeding ranks, until the mass was brought to a standstill. More Guardsmen threw themselves straight at the ranks, firing as they could, crashing in with bayonet and clubbed rifle. Now the column shivers; but the Germans are brave men. They rally, for their comrades are pouring into the town to help them. Up side streets and lanes, by all the approaches they come, and everywhere the men of the Guards spring at them. But surely numbers must tell. What can four battered regiments, fighting by handfuls, do in face of such thousands of a fresh army corps! From Maroilles right down the line the British are fighting for their lives, for von Kluck has staked heavily on this throw, and it would seem that the dice are loaded. He pushes his guns up still closer until some are firing into the town almost at point-blank range. Again, what does it matter if his own men are swept away? There are thousands more to fill their places. The houses have begun to blaze fiercely in the torrents of rain, and there is plenty of light at last. And now the Guards rally for a supreme effort. The last, the forlorn hope--but it is the Guards, and at least they will go down fighting to the last man. One mighty heave--in at them--again--they are breaking--heave! They have done it. Broken them. Driven them out. And behind them the enemy leave close upon 1,000 dead.