“By Jove, they’ve got through the Wessex!” cried Grice of the Mallows.

“The divils have hurrooshed us, Ted,” said his brother subaltern, cocking his revolver.

The ranks were breaking, and crowding towards Private Conolly, all talking together as the officers peered back through the veil of dust.  The sailors had run their Gardner out, and she was squirting death out of her five barrels into the flank of the rushing stream of savages.  “Oh, this bloody gun!” shouted a voice.  “She’s jammed again.”  The fierce metallic grunting had ceased, and her crew were straining and hauling at the breech.

“This damned vertical feed!” cried an officer.

“The spanner, Wilson!—­the spanner!  Stand to your cutlasses, boys, or they’re into us.”  His voice rose into a shriek as he ended, for a shovel-headed spear had been buried in his chest.  A second wave of dervishes lapped over the hillocks, and burst upon the machine-gun and the right front of the line.  The sailors were overborne in an instant, but the Mallows, with their fighting blood aflame, met the yell of the Moslem with an even wilder, fiercer cry, and dropped two hundred of them with a single point-blank volley.  The howling, leaping crew swerved away to the right, and dashed on into the gap which had already been made for them.

But C Company had drawn no trigger to stop that fiery rush.  The men leaned moodily upon their Martinis.  Some had even thrown them upon the ground.  Conolly was talking fiercely to those about him.  Captain Foley, thrusting his way through the press, rushed up to him with a revolver in his hand.

“This is your doing, you villain!” he cried.

“If you raise your pistol, Captin, your brains will be over your coat,” said a low voice at his side.

He saw that several rifles were turned on him.  The two subs. had pressed forward, and were by his side.  “What is it, then?” he cried, looking round from one fierce mutinous face to another.  “Are you Irishmen?  Are you soldiers?  What are you here for but to fight for your country?”

“England is no country of ours,” cried several.

“You are not fighting for England.  You are fighting for Ireland, and for the Empire of which it as part.”

“A black curse on the Impire!” shouted Private McQuire, throwing down his rifle. “’Twas the Impire that backed the man that druv me onto the roadside.  May me hand stiffen before I draw trigger for it.

“What’s the Impire to us, Captain Foley, and what’s the Widdy to us ayther?” cried a voice.

“Let the constabulary foight for her.”

“Ay, be God, they’d be better imployed than pullin’ a poor man’s thatch about his ears.”

“Or shootin’ his brother, as they did mine.”

“It was the Impire laid my groanin’ mother by the wayside.  Her son will rot before he upholds it, and ye can put that in the charge-sheet in the next coort-martial.”