n a British light flared. Half-way over he hesitated one moment
whether to leap back or forward, then hurriedly leapt down in front of
the parapet and flung himself flat on his face. He was just too late.
The lights revealed him exactly as he leapt, and a wildly excited
King's Own Asterisk pulled back the cut-off of his magazine and opened
rapid fire, yelling frenziedly at the same time that they were
coming--were coming--were attacking--were charging--look out!

Every K.O.A. on his feet lost no time in joining in the 'mad minute'
and every K.O.A. who had been asleep or lying down was up in a
twinkling and blazing over the parapet before his eyes were properly
opened. The machine-gun detachment were more circumspect if no less
eager. The screen before the wide loophole was jerked away and the fat
barrel of the maxim peered out and swung smoothly from side to side,
looking for a fair mark.

It had not long to wait. The German working-party 'stuck it out' for a
couple of minutes, but with light after light flaming into the sky and
exposing them pitilessly, with the British trench crackling and
spitting fire from end to end, with the bullets hissing and whistling
over them, and hailing thick amongst them, their nerves gave and broke;
in a frantic desire for life and safety they flung away the last chance
of life and safety their prone and motionless position gave them.

They scrambled to their feet, a score of long-cloaked, crouching
figures, glaringly plain and distinct in the vivid light, and turned to
run for their trench. The sheeting bullets caught half a dozen and
dropped them before they had well stood up, stumbled another two or
three over before they could stir a couple of paces, went on cutting
down the remainder swiftly and mercilessly. The remainder ran,
stumbling and tripping and staggering, their legs hampered by their
long coats, their feet clogged and slipping in the wet, greasy mud.
The eye glaring behind the swinging sights of the maxim caught that
clear target of running figures, the muzzle began to jet forth a stream
of fire and hissing bullets, the cartridge belt to click, racing
through the breach.

The bullets cut a path of flying mud-splashes across the bare ground to
the runners, played a moment about their feet, then lifted and swept
across and across--once, twice, thrice. On the first sweep the
thudding bullets found their targets, on the second they still caught
some of them, on the