Young Lochgair’s method of executing this command was characteristically thorough.  He climbed in leisurely fashion upon the parados; and standing there, with all his six-foot-three in full view, issued his orders.

“Face this way, boys!  Keep your eyes on that group of buildings just behind the empty trench, in below the Fosse.  You’ll get some target practice presently.  Don’t go and forget that you are the straightest-shooting platoon in the Company.  There they are”—­he pointed with his stick—­“lots of them—­coming through that gap in the wall!  Now then, rapid fire, and let them have it!  Oh, well done, boys!  Good shooting!  Very good!  Very good ind—­”

He stopped suddenly, swayed, and toppled back into the trench.  Major Kemp caught him in his arms, and laid him gently upon the chalky floor.  There was nothing more to be done.  Young Lochgair had given his platoon their target, and the platoon were now firing steadily upon the same.  He closed his eyes and sighed, like a tired child.

“Carry on, Major!” he murmured faintly.  “I’m all right.”

So died the simple-hearted, valiant enthusiast whom we had christened Othello.

The entire regiment—­what was left of it—­was now firing over the back of the trench; for the wily Teuton had risked no frontal attack, seeing that he could gain all his ends from the left flank.  Despite vigorous rifle fire and the continuous maledictions of the machine-gun, the enemy were now pouring through the cottages behind the trench.  Many grey figures began to climb up the face of Fosse Eight, where apparently there was none to say them nay.

“We shall have a cheery walk back, I don’t think!” murmured Wagstaffe.

He was right.  Presently a withering fire was opened from the summit of the Fosse, which soon began to take effect in the exiguous and ill-protected trench.

“The Colonel is wounded, sir,” reported the Sergeant-Major to Major Kemp.

“Badly?”

“Yes, sir.”

Kemp looked round him.  The regiment was now alone in the trench, for the gallant company upon their right had been battered almost out of existence.

“We can do no more good by staying here any longer,” said the Major.  “We have done our little bit.  I think it is a case of ‘Home, John!’ Tell off a party to bring in the C.O., Sergeant-Major.”

Then he passed the order.

“Highlanders, retire to the trenches behind, by Companies, beginning from the right.”

“Whatever we may think of the Bosche as a gentleman,” mused that indomitable philosopher, Captain Wagstaffe, as he doubled stolidly rearward behind his Company, “there is no denying his bravery as a soldier or his skill in co-ordinating an attack.  It’s positively uncanny, the way his artillery supports his infantry. (Hallo, that was a near one!) This enfilade fire from the Fosse is most unpleasant. (I fancy that one went through my kilt.) Steady there, on the left:  don’t bunch, whatever you do!  Thank heaven, there’s the next line of trenches, fully manned.  And thank God, there’s that boy Bobby tumbling in unhurt!”