“My comrade is back there!” panted Stewart, and tried to pass.
But the officer caught his arm.
“Madman!” he cried. “It is death to go that way!”
“What is that to me?” retorted Stewart, and wrenched his arm away.
The officer watched him for an instant, then turned away with a shrug. After all, he reflected, it was none of his affair; his task was to hold the Germans back, and he threw himself into it.
“Steady, men!” he shouted. “Steady! Our reserves are coming!”
And his men cheered and held a firm front, though it cost them dear—so firm and steady that Stewart found he could not get past it, but was carried back foot by foot, too exhausted to resist, entangled hopelessly in the retreat. The Germans pressed forward, filling the street from side to side, compact, irresistible.
And then the Belgians heard behind them the gallop of horses, the roll of heavy wheels, and their captain, glancing back, saw that a quick-firer had swung into position in the middle of the street.
“Steady, men!” he shouted. “We have them now! Steady till I give the word!” He glanced back again and caught the gun-captain’s nod. “Now! To the side and back!” he screamed.
The men, with a savage cheer, sprang to right and left, into doorways, close against the walls, and the gun, with a purr of delight, let loose its lightnings into the advancing horde.