I was dragged helpless for about twenty feet when, providentially,
the rein broke and I dropped to the ground, the horse dashing on in his
fright until he was finally captured.
I was picked up for dead and a stretcher was sent for; but, while on the
way, consciousness returned and in a few minutes I was able to navigate
without assistance. I then and there decided that I surely was
preserved for France and was not doomed to die an ignominious or
untimely death behind the front line trenches.
After supper that night I listened to the remarkable story of a man
whose lot was destined to be woven with mine to a degree:--"Aye, laddie,
they came on thick at Mons! There was one time there when there was only
Sandy MacFarlane and mysel' left out o' the whole company, and for two
or three hours we lay behind a wee bank, no higher'n your knee, fighting
them off. Lord how we plugged them! They died like flies! And then puir
Sandy got his, an' there was naething left for me tae do but tae beat an
honorable retreat, an' I grabbed Sandy's rifle an' retired on to the
main body, wi' the bullets buzzin' like bees around me.
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