The other men in the trench were firing all the while. They had no
hope; but they aimed just as if they had been shooting at Bisley.
Suddenly one of them lifted up his voice in the plainest English,
"Gawd help us!" he bellowed to the man next to him, "but we're
blooming marvels! Look at those grey... gentlemen, look at them! D'ye
see them? They're not going down in dozens, nor in 'undreds; it's
thousands, it is. Look! look! there's a regiment gone while I'm
talking to ye."

"Shut it!" the other soldier bellowed, taking aim, "what are ye
gassing about!"

But he gulped with astonishment even as he spoke, for, indeed, the
grey men were falling by the thousands. The English could hear the
guttural scream of the German officers, the crackle of their revolvers
as they shot the reluctant; and still line after line crashed to the
earth.

All the while the Latin-bred soldier heard the cry: "Harow! Harow!
Monseigneur, dear saint, quick to our aid! St. George help us!"

"High Chevalier, defend us!"

The singing arrows fled so swift and thick that they darkened the air;
the heathen horde melted from before them.

"More machine guns!" Bill yelled to Tom.

"Don't hear them," Tom yelled back. "But, thank God, anyway; they've
got it in the neck."