Everybody rushed into the street, but there was no longer a square.  One of the “Jack Johnsons” had alighted in the centre of it.  The first glance at the scene disclosed the fact that the fountain had been blown sky high, and the cobbles torn up like pebbles, but it was not until afterwards that one realised that there had been men in that square.  None was left alive in it now.  One poor fellow had been struck by a piece of shell and had died before his head had crashed against the ground.  The colour of the dead face reminded the Subaltern hauntingly of the grey walls of the kitchen.  Fortunately, the eyes were closed, but the horror of the thing—­the shattered skull, the protruding, blood-smeared brains, bit into the Subaltern’s soul.  He gazed at it for a moment, spellbound, and then turned in towards the kitchen, feeling broken and humiliated.

“We must get them into better shelter than this,” said the Captain.  “That might happen again.”

The owners of the house came out to meet them.  The old man and his wife seemed strangely unperturbed by the noise and the sights around them.  He was a fine old man, with a yellow skin, long, flowing beard, and a bald head.  He explained that he was the local Mayor, and there was more natural dignity about him than many a Lord Mayor of a huge city.  He told them that underneath his house was a cellar large enough to hide the whole Company, and led the Captain away to see it.

In a few moments they returned.

“Just the very place,” said the Captain; “we’ll get the Company down there right away, before the next big one comes over.”

He led them down a flight of steps, opened a door, and stepped gingerly into pitch darkness.  When their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, it was just possible to make out the dimensions of the place, and very gradually the men filed in, and lay down wherever they could.  By the time the last man had pushed his way in, there was scarcely an unoccupied foot of room in the whole cellar.

After a time the talk died down, and sounds of slumber filled the darkness.  Probably the only men in the whole Company who did not spend the rest of that day in sleep were the “look-out” men, one posted in the road to intercept messages, and the other at the head of the steps to give warning.

As soon as it was dark they could leave the cellar with perfect safety—­a thing they were glad to do, for the atmosphere was not as fresh as it might have been, and the place was very crowded.  Only about half of the men, however, availed themselves of the opportunity.  The others were too tired and just went on sleeping.

Some time in the middle of the night they were awakened by the Mess Sergeant, who had successfully arrived with rations.  The only possible way, it seemed, was to get supplies over the bridges under cover of darkness, as the enemy had got their range to a yard.  He left their share of food, and then hurriedly left.