the wounded, the hacking of the unarmed--and caught, too, in a glance,
the good wholesome faces of the faced-about rear rank of the Marines.
The Mallows, too, had faced about, and in an instant Conolly had thrown
himself into the heart of C Company, striving with the officers to form
the men up with their comrades.

But the mischief had gone too far. The rank and file had no heart in
their work. They had broken before, and this last rush of murderous
savages was a hard thing for broken men to stand against. They flinched
from the furious faces and dripping forearms. Why should they throw
away their lives for a flag for which they cared nothing? Why should
their leader urge them to break, and now shriek to them to re-form?
They would not re-form. They wanted to get to the sea and to safety.
He flung himself among them with outstretched arms, with words of
reason, with shouts, with gaspings. It was useless; the tide was beyond
his control. They were shredding out into the desert with their faces
set for the coast.

"Bhoys, will ye stand for this?" screamed a voice. It was so ringing,
so strenuous, that the breaking Mallows glanced backwards. They were
held by what they saw. Private Conolly had planted his rifle-stock
downwards in a mimosa bush. From the fixed bayonet there fluttered a
little green flag with the crownless harp. God knows for what black
mutiny, for what signal of revolt, that flag had been treasured up
within the corporal's tunic! Now its green wisp stood amid the rush,
while three proud regimental colours were reeling slowly backwards.

"What for the flag?" yelled the private.

"My heart's blood for it! and mine! and mine!" cried a score of voices.