"They have!" said Croquier gravely. The infantry drew nearer, passing on the road just below the gun position, stricken, beaten, war-dulled--and dismayed. It does not take many minutes of fighting in the open against machine-guns to break the spirit and numb the hope of victory. A machine-gun spitting 600 bullets to the minute, swaying its muzzle from side to side like a jet of murder, is the material embodiment of the very spirit of slaughter. These men had seen it and terror had taken up its dwelling in their eyes. Panic and discipline struggled for the mastery. But, as always, blood tells. The guns belched death behind them and carnage rode, shrieking, on the blast, but their officers were there, cool and masterful. On the very verge of disgraceful rout, the French steadied to the words of command from leaders whom they not only admired and respected, but loved. In spite of the magnificent evidence of courage, Horace groaned. "We're licked!" Tattered remnants of troops, wounded, half-delirious, many without rifle or pack, surged back. The torrent of smitten humanity filled the road. The weaker were pushed into the ditch. Not a man but had bleared eyes looking wildly out of sweat-rimmed sockets. The way was littered with mess-tins, cartridge belts, kepis and broken rifles. But training, only a little less strong than the instinct of life itself, came to their aid. The sight of an officer brought the hand to the forehead in salute, and the gesture brought back the sense of control. Even as the regiments fled, they reformed. Horace bit his parched lips. "Are we going to stay here and be killed?" he cried. The hunchback, his iron will unmoved by the imminent peril, answered in a perfectly even tone, "None of the guns have moved." Harsh and wild, the air overhead screamed like a living thing. Men dropped on every side. The road of flight was a shambles. "Won't they even try to save the guns?" gasped the boy, battling with panic. "Second round!" remarked the battery commander, as calmly as though on maneuvers. "A man!" declared Croquier admiringly, under his breath. "But everything's lost!" gasped Horace. "Is it?" said the hunchback. "In echelon!" came the order, followed by correction and range for each gun. "Eight hundred and fifty!" "... and fifty!" "Fire!" The battery had scarcely fired, the first shell was but half-way on its mission of revenge, when, as though at a signal, a dozen other batteries replied. A cloud of men in iron-gray uniforms topped the hill, met the concentrated fire of those batteries of seventy-fives and melted into a gray carpet on the earth which would never stir again. Sweeping up through the scattered and broken troops, as jaunty and full of fight as though they had not been marching for hours and had not encountered the débris of a defeat, came the French reserves. They cheered as they passed the battery. "Back us up!" they cried. "Third round," said the battery commander.