“We hold them off,” answered the soldier, smiling cheerfully, though his face was drawn with pain.
“Will they break through?”
“No. Our reënforcements are coming up,” and the little soldier hobbled away down the street.
“I should have asked him where the ambulances are,” thought Stewart. He glanced again toward the barricade. The firing had slackened; evidently the assailants had again been repulsed. Yes, there was time, and he darted down the street after the limping soldier. He was at his side in a moment. “Where are the ambulances?” he asked.
The soldier, turning to reply, glanced back along the street and his face went livid.
“Ah, good God!” he groaned. “Look yonder!”
And, looking, Stewart beheld a gray-green flood pouring over the barricade, beheld the flash of reddened bayonets, beheld the little band of Belgians swept backward.
With a cry of anguish, he sprang back along the street, but in an instant the tide was upon him. He fought against it furiously, striking, cursing, praying——
And suddenly he found himself face to face with the Belgian officer, blood-stained, demoniac, shouting encouragement to his men. His eyes flashed with amazement when he saw Stewart.
“Go back! Go back!” he shouted.