The gunners threw themselves down on the grass to rest.
Then, from the rear, came a new sound, a whip-like crackle, of little sharp explosions, rapidly coming nearer.
"That's a queer machine-gun," said one of the gunners, listening.
"It's not a gun," put in Horace, whose composure had begun to return when the cavalry made their triumphant dash, "it's a motor-cycle. I used to ride one in Beaufays."
The dispatch-rider whizzed by on the road below. The men watched him, and, ignoring their own dangers, one of the gunners remarked,
"It takes a hero or a fool to risk his neck in that part of the work!"
A dragoon galloped up with orders for the officers of the battery.
"Limber up!"
Instantly all was excitement. The gun was to take up a new position. The German infantry rush had failed, but the artillery halted not its tempest of shell.
Three of the horses had been killed. This left only five for the gun. They strained at their collars, but the wheels had sunk in the soft soil.