The guns roared again, and under their fire, the Germans broke and fled, deserting some of their guns. As they wavered and gave way, the French cavalry, who had been waiting their chance, charged down and cleared the hillside of the last invader. "Cease firing!" came the order. The gunners threw themselves down on the grass to rest. Then, from the rear, came a new sound, a whip-like crackle, of little sharp explosions, rapidly coming nearer. "That's a queer machine-gun," said one of the gunners, listening. "It's not a gun," put in Horace, whose composure had begun to return when the cavalry made their triumphant dash, "it's a motor-cycle. I used to ride one in Beaufays." The dispatch-rider whizzed by on the road below. The men watched him, and, ignoring their own dangers, one of the gunners remarked, "It takes a hero or a fool to risk his neck in that part of the work!" A dragoon galloped up with orders for the officers of the battery. "Limber up!" Instantly all was excitement. The gun was to take up a new position. The German infantry rush had failed, but the artillery halted not its tempest of shell. Three of the horses had been killed. This left only five for the gun. They strained at their collars, but the wheels had sunk in the soft soil. The shrapnel whined murderously. Another horse fell. "Peste!" cried the hunchback. He thrust the cage into Horace's hands, ran up to the wheels of the gun, where two gunners were lifting, shouldered the men aside, stooped and put his tremendous strength into the heave and the gun jerked forward. "Hey, but you are strong!" said the sergeant. "But yes," the hunchback replied, "I am almost as good as a horse." The guns moved off at a sharp trot. Horace and the hunchback jumped on the rear of the ammunition wagon. They had not gone a hundred yards when a shrapnel bullet struck one of the gun-drivers in the head and he fell. The horses commenced to plunge. There was a moment's confusion, and, before any one could say a word, Horace had dropped from the wagon, run forward to the gun and leapt on the plunging horse. Old memories of the ranch came back to him and the rearing animal quieted at once. The gun-team trotted on. The keen eye of the major caught the strange figure on the horse. "Where do you come from, boy?" Horace saluted, trying hard to do it with military precision, and explained. [Illustration: _Courtesy of "L'Illustration."_ "THEY DO NOT PASS!" "THE VETERAN'S ADVICE." Two famous pictures by Georges which awoke red-hot interest in France at the beginning of the war.] "But you may be shot, there!" the major remarked, in a conversational tone of voice, as he cantered beside the gun-team. "If you'll excuse me, sir," said the boy, "but I'm in no more danger than the rest of us." "But that of course!" "It is 'that of course' for me, too, sir, if you'll let me," Horace said. The major smiled under his grizzled mustache and galloped on.