med that Hawke should see the
spasm that came into his face.

"You are not the only one that's lost a pal to-night, Hawke," he said in
a choking voice; "now give me a hand with this Prussian hog."

As Hawke jumped up with alacrity he gave a yell of positive anguish.
"Why didn't you let me tickle 'im in the ribs, sir? He's gone!" he
howled.

CHAPTER XXXII

The Rewards of Valour

Von Dussel's head must have been as hard as his black heart, for he had
recovered his senses at the moment Wetherby died, and a mighty gust of
passion swept over Dennis Dashwood's soul.

"He can't be far off, and I'll find him if I die for it. Get you back to
cover, Hawke."

"Is it likely?" cried his companion, giving vent to his overcharged
feelings by a very ugly laugh, which changed into a howl of delight as a
bullet grazed the tip of his ear. "There he is, sir, hiding in that
there crater!--and he's some shot too--look out!"

Von Dussel, armed with a rifle--there were scores lying about littering
the ground--lodged his second bullet in the leather case that held
Dennis's field glasses, and, instantly dividing, the two ran a zigzag
course towards the crater as they saw his head dodging down.

It was not twenty yards away, but as they reached it, one on either
flank, they saw their prey scramble out of the opposite side and bolt
like a hare across the open ground beyond.

There were two shell-holes in the distance, for one of which he was
obviously making, but just as Hawke dropped to his knee and covered him
with his rifle, the German searchlights went out, leaving everything
pitch dark.

"That's done us, Hawke," cried Dennis bitterly, as the marksman of A
Company fired a random shot.

"'Arf a mo, sir. If I didn't wing 'im, I'll bet I've 'eaded 'im orf to
the right"; and he sent a brace of bullets pinging into the darkness.

"Lor lumme!" he chuckled the next moment, "there ain't no fool like an
Allemong. What did he want to fire back for?" And he wiped a great gout
of the chalky mud that had splashed up into his face as a Mauser bullet
struck the ground between them. "'E's in that 'ole to the right--that's
where we'll find 'im, sure as my name's 'Arry 'Awke. Come on, sir, don't
make a sound!"

With the switching off of the searchlights the enemy barrage had ceased,
and the deafening crash of the German shells was succeeded by a weird
silence.

The distant boom of the British firing seemed very far off and almost
in