a wide detour before he put her to top
speed across the open.

The sergeant who had ridden her was lying on his back at the edge of the
cornfield, and the greyness of his face told that he was dead.

"Now, my beauty!" he cried, with a squeeze of his knees. And away he
dashed, taking a barbed wire entanglement like a bird, and coming up
with a little bunch of horsemen re-forming in a hollow.

They were Dragoon Guards, and with them was a detachment of the Deccan
Horse, whose lance-points and steel helmets twinkled in the sunshine,
with here and there a turban among them.

Horses and men betrayed their eagerness, for it was the first time since
the dark days of 1914 that the cavalry had had their chance.

"Hallo, sir! Who are you?" was their commander's greeting, as Dennis
reined up beside him.

"Lieutenant Dashwood, of the Reedshires, sir--just escaped from the
German lines, thanks to the mare which I found running wild up yonder. I
want to report a machine-gun in the corn up there."

[Illustration: "Nothing could check the victorious rush"]

"The dickens you do!" was the response; and the officer glanced at his
men.

Every eye was turned upon him, and the horses were pawing impatiently,
shaking the foam from their bits.

"It would be cruelty to animals to disappoint my chaps," he said, with
an odd laugh. "This is our day out, you know, and we've waited a tidy
while for it." And, raising his voice, he cried: "Come on, men! Slap
through 'em--and hang the consequences!"

A rapturous shout greeted his words, and the lance-points came down.

The next moment Dennis found himself galloping beside the leader through
the green corn-stalks. Grey figures sprang up in front; someone made a
prod at him with a bayonet and missed. Mausers cracked out and a
machine-gun began to bark, while here and there little knots of the
enemy pressed in close together and prepared to receive cavalry, others
flinging up their arms, crying: "Pity, Kamerad!"

But nothing could check the victorious rush.

When his revolver was empty, Dennis drew the sword attached to the
saddle, and though he could not distinctly remember what happened, he
saw that the blade was red from point to forte, when a parapet stopped
the charge, and voices shouted "Retire!"

They streamed back in any sort of order, laughing like schoolboys; and
though a few saddles had been emptied, they carried thirty-two prisoners
with them--men whose courage had failed at