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to raise the dead weight up about five inches. However, as soon as the rebel sharpshooters spotted the horseapparently moving, they began firing. One bullet knocked Marc’s cap askew; others slammed into Prince’s body. His master gasped with each insult.
    â€œDig your hands in and pull!” Marc cried. “I can’t hold this thing up much longer!” Cold sweat was pouring down his face.
    The young man did as he was ordered, letting out a bone-chilling shriek with each inch that he moved his crushed legs. He had to extricate himself by using only the upper part of his body, as his legs appeared to be lifeless. Marc’s shoulder, arms, and hands started to go numb. In another second he would have to let go. Bullets continued to whiz over his head or thud into the horse. With a wheezing gasp, Marc released the sabre. The corporal screamed as if he had been gelded.
    Marc forced himself to look over at him. The young man’s legs—limp, one of them askew—were completely free. His face was grey and awash with sweat. He was trembling uncontrollably. His lips were working, but he was unable to speak.
    â€œOne of your legs is broken,” Marc said. “The other is likely numb, but you may be able to stand on it. When I say ‘go,’ I want you to raise both arms. I’m going to haul you up, and we’re going to make a run for it as if we’re in a three-legged race. Understand?”
    When no words would come, the young man nodded his assent.
    Just then a volley of gunfire roared out of the woods. Hilliard had been watching Marc’s every move. He was giving them four or five seconds of relief from the sniper fire.
    â€œGo!”
    The pounding of Marc’s heart and the rasping of his breathdrowned out the corporal’s shrieks as the two men rose up, crab-like, against the horizon, and started to scuttle raggedly towards the woods. There could be no more covering fire now. They were silhouetted against the treeline like ducks in a shooting gallery. Forgive me, Marc whispered to Beth, who was always somewhere close by, as he braced for the bullet that would end his life and break his promise. Several of them skidded through the grass at his feet. The lad’s legs were useless. He had fainted with pain or terror. Marc picked him up in both arms, just as a fresh thought struck him: I will die with an enemy bullet in my back!
    But there were no more bursts of gunfire. The air about him had gone ominously quiet. Yet he was still moving: he could feel his boots thudding on the frost-hardened ground. He could feel the wind gusting and pulling on his tunic. He could feel snow on his cheeks. Snow. He was running—camouflaged—through a squall.
    â€œThis way! This way!” It was Hilliard’s voice, soon joined by a chorus of others, orienting him as a rattling cup does a blind man.
    Seconds later he collapsed into a tangle of spruce boughs.
    â€œYou made it!” Hilliard declared, beside him. And there was awe in his voice.
    *   *   *
    The rescued man was taken back to the surgeon. No-one in Marc’s company knew his name, and he was soon forgotten as Captain Riddell’s plan to take the barricade was now ready to be executed. The brief squall that had saved Marc’s life was now over. The air was clear and cold again. Sporadic gunfire to theright indicated that the main battle was still progressing. Marc was grateful that his squad had been designated to provide only the covering fire for Riddell’s pincered assault, as the adrenaline that had kept him going till now was fast draining away and not likely to return. He ordered Hilliard to direct the opening volleys, while he sat on his haunches and took deep breaths. Some sodden biscuit had been brought up, and he nibbled at it dutifully. Once the flanking troops had succeeded in nearing the sides of the log-rampart, he knew he would have to find some reserve of strength to lead