After triumph, terror, faintness, and a closing of her eyes, she opened them to see Feller, with his old straw hat—­brim torn and crownless now—­still on his head, rise from the debris and shake himself like a dog coming ashore from a swim.  While the engineers hastened to repair the breach he assisted Stransky, who had also been knocked down by the concussion, to lift the overturned automatic off the gunner.  The doctor, putting a hand on the gunner’s heart, shook his head, and two hospital-corps men removed the body to make room for the engineers.

Dellarme could now spare attention from the charge of the Gray infantry to observe the results of the shell fire.  With the gunner dead, he looked for the gunner’s assistant, who lay several feet distant.  As Dellarme and the doctor hastened to him he raised himself to a sitting posture and looked around in dazed inquiry.  The doctor poured a cup of brandy from his flask and held it to the assistant’s lips, whereon he blinked and nodded his head in personal confirmation of the fact that he was still alive.  But when he tried to raise his right arm the hand would not join in the movement.  His wrist was broken.

For once Dellarme’s cheery smile deserted him.  There was no one left to man the automatic, so vital in the defence, and even if somebody could be found the gun was probably out of commission.  As he started toward it his smile, already summoned back, was shot with surprise at sight of the gun in place and a stranger in blue blouse, white hair showing through a crownless straw hat, trying out the mechanism with knowing fingers.  Dellarme stared.  Feller, unconscious of everything but the gun, righted the cartridge band, swung the barrel back and forth, and then fired a shot.

“You—­you seem to know rapid-firers!” Dellarme exclaimed in blank incomprehension.

“Yes, sir!” Feller raised his finger, whether in salute as a soldier or as a gardener touching his hat it was hard to say.

“But how—­where?” gasped Dellarme.

This time the movement of the finger was undoubtedly in salute, in perfect, swift, military salute, with head thrown back and shoulders stiff.  Feller the gardener was dead and buried without ceremony.

“Lanstron’s class, school for officers, sir.  Stood one in ballistics, prize medallist control of gun-fire.  Yes, sir, I know something about rapid-firers,” Feller replied, and fired a few more shots.  “A little high, a little low—­right, my lady, right!”

Stransky was back in his place next to the automatic and firing whenever a head appeared.  He rolled his eyes in a characteristic squint of scrutiny toward the new recruit.

“Beats spraying rose-bushes for bugs, eh, old man?” he asked.

“Yes, a lead solution is best for gray bugs!” Feller remarked pungently, and their glances meeting, they saw in each other’s eyes the joy of hell.

“A pair of anarchists!” exclaimed Stransky grinning, and tried a shot for another head.