"That's one way of enfilading a trench," said Trafford to the Major, as the last stone,—a pink one with a blue ribbon,—swept out of sight. "Shrapnel's not in it with—Aberdeen granite;" and raising his bugle to his lips he sounded the "charge," clear and true.
Then it was that the curlers had compensation for their spoiled sport. The whole line of the attack, Guides, Sharpshooters, and Guards, seemed to spring into being out of the snow, and hurl themselves in a parallel rush towards the Marienkastel. Bugles blew wild music from their brazen throats; "Forwards!" cried officers with drawn swords to their men, and "Forwards!" the men cried back to them with the deep-throated joy of battle.
"Forwards!" shouted Bernhardt, pressing with the van, reckless of personal danger, conscious only of the possible fear of others, and of the supreme importance of pushing home the present attack at all costs.
A spluttering volley rang out from the enemy's entrenchment, but scarce a man of the attack dropped. Nor was this to be wondered at: Saunders' men were in confusion. A curling-stone weighs about sixteen pounds, and when it is travelling at a rate of forty miles an hour is almost as deadly as a cannon-ball; nay, they were more alarming than ordinary shot or shell, for they were visible, and the men who might have faced the unseen death struggled frantically to avoid the visual peril of the granite avalanche. There was much breaking of bones and crushing of ribs, cries of agony and groans of tribulation. Rifles went off at various angles, friends grappled with friends, and many, pushed on by the weight of the accumulated stones and the press of writhing limbs, began to slither down the toboggan track,—even as Frau von Bilderbaum and Von Hügelweiler had done two days before. It was a moment of torment and confusion, a moment when loyalty and discipline were helpless and unavailing, a moment, indeed, when a much less determined attack would have prevailed against such twisted chaos and dismay.
"The Kastel's ours!" cried Trafford enthusiastically, as Bernhardt's force swept irresistibly over the toboggan run and pressed furiously to the walls of the Schloss.
"Heaven help Saunders now!" he added, a swift fear crossing his brain. "By gad, they're bolting!" he cried in glad surprise, as the garrison of the castle streamed out and away with scarce a backward glance, and never a backward shot at the triumphant enemy.
"That's not like Robert Saunders—but I'm glad, devilish glad."
"Congratulations, sir!" said Major Flannel, shaking Trafford warmly by the hand. "I've seen a bit of fighting in my day, and I've seen a bit of sport, but I've never seen the two things blended so harmoniously before in the whole course of my existence."
Trafford returned the hand-grip, but waited for no further compliments from the enthusiastic Major. Down beneath him, riding on a gun-carriage pulled by a score of soldiers, Gloria van Schattenberg was mounting the slope towards the long-forfeited home of her ancestors. And with bent knees and trailing pole Trafford ski-ed down the incline, to be the first to offer her congratulations on her victory.