among the bivouacs and shell holes, stabbing at the sleeping Antrims.
Here and there men were locked together, struggling tooth and claw; the
air was vibrant with a ghastly pandemonium of grunts and shrieks; the
sunken road ran like a slaughter-house gutter. There was only one thing
to do, and that was to get out, so Patrick did so, driving before him
what men he could collect.

A man staggered past him, blowing like a walrus. It was the Padre's
batman, and he had his master tucked under one arm, in his underclothes,
kicking feebly.

Patrick halted his men beyond the hill crest, and there the Colonel
joined him, trotting on his stockinged feet. Other officers arrived,
herding men. "They must have rushed the Ruts., Sir," Patrick panted;
"must be after those guns just behind us." "They'll get 'em too," said
the Colonel grimly. "We can't stop 'em," said the Senior Captain. "If we
counter at once we might give the Loamshires time to come up--they're in
support, Sir--but--but, if they attack us, they'll get those guns--run
right over us."

The Colonel nodded. "Man, I know, I know; but look at 'em"--he pointed
to the pathetic remnant of his battalion lying out behind the
crest--"they're dropping asleep where they lie--they're beat to a
finish--not another kick left in 'em."

He sat down and buried his face in his hands. The redoubtable Antrims
had come to the end.

Suddenly came a shout from the Senior Captain, "Good Lord, what's that
fellow after? Who the devil is it?"