Whether it was that the enemy had seen the heads of our horsemen above the rise and had got the line on us over open sights, or whether he had seen the flash of Heming’s firing before we had come up, we could not tell. In any case he was upon us now. All along the line of guns his hurricane of shells began to burst. They fell on top and plus and minus of us. shutting us off from help. From our wagon-lines on the roadside our peril had been sized up and teams were coming at the gallop to drag us out. They never got as far as us. Two hundred yards short, as though he had been potting at them with a rifle, the enemy caught them, and they crashed and sank in a cloud of dust. No sooner were they down than fresh teams dashed out. By his riding I recognised the lead-driver of the foremost team as Trottrot. At last his opportunity had come. He was winning his spurs and proving to all the watching world that he was not yellow He would never reach us. He was riding towards certain and useless death. He was almost in the storm-centre, when I ran out and signalled him back. In the middle of the battery, as cool and collected as if nothing were happening, Heming sat, his map-board on his knees. Suzette knelt beside him, doing his pencilling and listening through the ‘phone to the directions of the Major from up front. Now and then he looked up to give his orders for new ranges and angles; the expression on his face was triumphant. Every so often he left his map-board and walked among the men, encouraging them, “Stick to it, boys. We’ve got to blow the enemy out of the wire. It won’t take much longer now.” But the boys were growing fewer. There were less and less of us to hear him every time he spoke to us. Three guns had been knocked out, and their crews were lying dead about them. Now there were only two left; now only one. Suzette was setting fuzes. Heming was loading and putting on the ranges. I was laying and firing. We were all three wounded. We three had taken the places of the dead gunners and seemed to have been going through these motions, alone and mechanically, keeping the remaining gun in action, ever since eternity had begun. Something happened to end it—a roar, a sheet of dame; then darkness. A stream of warmth was trickling down my face and neck. I opened my eyes. The gun was lying over on its side; like worshippers at mass, Heming and Suzette were kneeling with clasped hands, their faces towards the red altar of the enemy. As I watched, their faces drew together and his arm went about her. Their action became symbolic; it was like England greeting France in the hour of agony. Everything faded. The shock and clamour drifted into silence. The test of scarlet was ended. Here in the white orderliness of a sheeted bed, with the accustomedness of peace on every hand, it is strange to remember. THE END End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Test of Scarlet, by Coningsby Dawson