into the ditch, and the big black man pitched headlong down upon him.
"By , too bad," muttered Roberts, and then his revolver spluttered. The situation was not bad. The Scouts had gained the trench in good time. Bunched together and firing by platoon, they were doing better. The Dios-Dios line received each volley with a shivering bow, and if this involuntary courtesy proved the firing to be still too high, it no less showed that it was at least within whistling distance. The ardour of the advance waned gradually; at last the lines stopped in indecision. The more rabid fanatics were still tugging forward, the others were holding back, and the lines vibrated between the two impulses without advancing. It was the psychological moment.
"Time for a charge, eh?" Roberts shouted, turning to his superior.
But that gentleman was sleeping quietly, his face in the grass, and a shivered lance-handle by his side.
"With the bayonet—charge!" bellowed Roberts, taking command.
He took a few steps in advance and found himself alone. The Scouts were satisfied with their position; they settled a little deeper in the trench and peppered away valiantly.
"Charge, darn you, charge!" screeched Roberts, pricking the nearest men with his sword.
