"Probably action against cavalry," Croquier continued. "I hope so. We're considerably too close for an infantry attack to be comfortable." Then, with majestic grandeur, the heavy artillery began to speak. As it opened, the crackling of the rifle-fire spread all round the horizon and the machine-guns yapped from a hundred points ahead. But, over all, the great guns boomed. It was as though, in the middle of a fight between terriers, two lions had sprung into the arena and deafened all other noise with their roars. "Clear for action!" At the words of the battery commander, every man of the crew of the "Soixante-Quinze" sprang to his post. The gun-numbers, who had been clustered about the "captive Kaiser," reached their places with a single spring. "Attention!" [Illustration: _French Official Photograph._ FRENCH INFANTRY ADVANCING.] [Illustration: _From "Illustrirte Zeitung."_ GERMAN INFANTRY ADVANCING.] Horace watched the deft movements of the artillerists, as they made sure that the sighting-gear was in place and that the training and elevating levers were working smoothly. "You wanted to see fighting, Horace," said Croquier, pointing with his finger, "well, look!" In the dull, hot afternoon haze, the boy saw black figures which seemed no larger than ants run up the hillside, far, far ahead and then suddenly disappear as they threw themselves down. Jets of up-thrown earth showed where the shells were striking, and a rising cloud of dust, like to that raised by a tooth-harrow being dragged over plowed land on a dry day, told, to accustomed eyes, the terrible tragedy of the curtain of leaden hail. "Gun-layers--forward!" came the sharp command. A pause. "That twisted willow, two points this side of the church-steeple." "We see it." "Use that!" The commander gave the elevation and the range. The guns were laid, the breeches returning smoothly to rest with their burden of death. "All ready, sir." "First round!" Fear lay heavy on Horace, but an overmastering desire to watch the modern gladiatorial arena, drove him to look. The firing number bent down to seize the lanyard. "Fire!" His experience at Beaufays had taught the boy to put his fingers to his ears, but it was the first time he had heard a .75, the famous "Soixante-Quinze" which the French believed--and rightly--to be the best field-gun in the world. It cracked deafeningly, stridently. The flame which darted out of the muzzle was long and thin and seemed to lick the air as though envious of the shell's flight. The smell of the powder was acrid and bitter, somewhat like the taste of an unripe persimmon, Horace thought. "One thousand, five hundred!" the battery commander called. And Number One of the gun crew repeated: "One thousand, five hundred." "Fire!" The men worked as in a frenzy, loading, extracting, and loading again. The shells, twelve to a minute, poured out of the flame-belching muzzle of the gun.