hich a cart road branched off at right angles to the main thoroughfare.
It was here that the outpost received instructions in a few French
phrases, the main one being "_Votre passe, s'il vous plait_." ("Your pass,
please.") This was because the road was open to refugees who were fleeing
from the Boches, and who had to show passes before being allowed to go on.
The absence of the pass meant that the person would be sent to
headquarters for examination.

It was quite natural that some of us Scots should find it difficult to
make ourselves familiar with these phrases. However, we were all willing
to try. One strapping Highlander, weary and footsore but daunted by
nothing, practised the phrases dutifully, though the French words were
almost lost in the encounter with his native Scotch. We chuckled, but he
merely glowered at us indignantly, and then went to take his place on
sentry go. Two Frenchmen came along in a wagon. The Highlander blocked
their way and sternly uttered what he conceived to be the phrase he had
been told to use. The Frenchmen sat mystified. There was a roar of
laughter when the Highlander, losing patience, shouted: "Pass us if ye
daur!" Then his sergeant came to the rescue.

These two Frenchmen in the wagon were the last refugees to pass. Soon
afterward, from my station farther down the road, I heard a clatter of
hoofs and caught a glimpse of Uhlans' helmets. I had barely time to pass
the word to the man on the next post and to jump behind a log before they
came into view. They were riding, full gallop into our lines, apparently
having abandoned ordinary scouting precautions in their eagerness to
strike where and when they might against our worn and lacerated forces.
We, now, had fought so long that we fought mechanically. Over my
protecting log, I aimed at the leading horseman as precisely and carefully
as if I had been at rifle practice. When I pulled the trigger he tumbled
into the road, rolled over awkwardly, and lay still. I did not feel as if
I had killed a man. I felt only a mild sense of satisfaction with the
accuracy of my aim. Bitter hate for the Huns had sprung in the heart of
every one of us after what we had that day seen of their savagery.

I had got my Uhlan at, perhaps, seventy yards. His fall checked the
squad's advance for a moment only. The man nearest grasped at the bridle
of the dead man's horse but missed it. On they all came, galloping
recklessly and yelling, the riderless horse l