lip of the huge hole his laugh of triumph died away,
for before he could check himself he had slid down among the remnants of
No. 6 Company, huddled together, leaderless, demoralised.

At the same moment a shell burst on the other side of the crater,
flinging an iron rain into the already terrified mob, and half burying
a man who had been descending into the pit.

It was the ferret-faced captain who picked himself up, white as a sheet
of paper, and then gave a guttural cry of surprise. Drawing his revolver
he strode forward and stopped in front of Dennis, covering him with the
weapon.

"I am looking for you, Carl Heft," he laughed hoarsely. "Possibly you
know why they want you at headquarters!"

No one knew exactly how it came about, but there was a sharp report, the
captain staggered back and fell, shot through the heart; and "Carl Heft"
stood like some avenging spirit, looking down at him, with the smoking
Webley in his hand.

"Kamerads!" he cried to the throng, "there lies the cause of half our
troubles! That beast would have driven us on again while he slunk in the
rear. Look at this!" And he pointed to the man who had already been
wounded five times. A fragment of the shell had just carried away his
right hand. "The game is up; we have the right to choose whether we die
like sheep, or live to rejoin our families. You can do as you like, but
I am going to surrender. I have had enough!"

Very erect, he swung round and began to walk up the side of the crater
in the direction of the French, and fifty voices cried: "He is right; we
have all had enough!" And they sprang forward in his wake, every man
with his hands raised above his head.

Dennis had planted one foot on the firm ground when a skewer-like
bayonet passed within an inch of his ear; and with a disappointed roar
its owner flung a pair of terrible arms about him, and the two rolled
backwards into the hole again.

"Now you had better say your prayers, Boche!" growled his assailant, as
a hairy hand closed on his throat; "I am going to kill you!"

CHAPTER XXIX

An Old Friend--and a Bitter Enemy!

The terrified German herd sprang aside as the two figures hurtled down
through the middle of them. Arms were raised sky-high, and quavering
voices clamoured "Mercy, Kamerad--we surrender!" but never a finger was
lifted to help Dennis. He lay on his back looking into the bloodshot
eyes of his old acquaintance, Aristide Puzzeau, who, having dropped his