Already the guard was out.  A bugle was blowing.  In another minute, the sentry-calls would locate the gap made by the three murdered sentinels.

A swift guttural conference among the leaders of the gray-clad marauders was followed by the barking of equally guttural commands.  And the Germans withdrew as quietly and as rapidly as they had come.

* * * * * * * * * * *

It was the mouthing and jabbering of the fit-possessed Corporal Rudolph Freund that drew to him the notice of a squad of Yankees led by Top-Sergeant Mahan, ten minutes later.  It was the shudder —­accompanied pointing of the delirious man’s finger, toward the nearby clump of undergrowth, that revealed to them the still warm body of Bruce.

Back to camp, carried lovingly in Mahan’s strong arms, went all that was left of the great courier-dog.  Back to camp, propelled between two none-too-gentle soldiers, staggered the fit-ridden Corporal Freund.

At the colonel’s quarters, a compelling dose of stimulant cleared some of the mists from the prisoner’s brain.  His nerve and his will-power still gone to smash, he babbled eagerly enough of the night attack, of the killing of the sentries and of his encounter with the Werewolf.

“I saw him fall!” he raved.  “But he is not dead.  The Werewolf can be killed only by a silver bullet, marked with a cross and blessed by a priest.  He will live to track me down!  Lock me where he cannot find me, for the sake of sweet mercy!”

And in this way, the “Here-We-Comes” learned of Bruce’s part in the night’s averted disaster.

Old Vivier wept unashamed over the body of the dog he had loved.  Top-Sergeant Mahan—­the big tears splashing, unnoted, from his own red eyes—­besought the Frenchman to strive for better self-control and not to set a cry-baby example to the men.

Then a group of grim-faced soldiers dug a grave.  And, carried by Mahan and Vivier, the beautiful dog’s body was borne to its resting-place.  A throng of men in the gray dawn stood wordless around the grave.  Some one shamefacedly took off his hat.  With equal shamefacedness, everybody else followed the example.

Mahan laid the dog’s body on the ground, at the grave’s brink.  Then, looking about him, he cleared his throat noisily and spoke.

“Boys,” he began, “when a human dies for other humans, there’s a Christian burial service read over him.  I’d have asked the chaplain to read one over Bruce, here, if I hadn’t known he’d say no.  But the Big Dog isn’t going to rest without a word said over his grave, for all that.”

Mahan cleared his throat noisily once more, winked fast, then went on:—­

“You can laugh at me, if any of you feel like it.  But there’s some of you here who wouldn’t be alive to laugh, if Bruce hadn’t done what he did last night.  He was only just a dog—­with no soul, and with no life after this one, I s’pose.  So he went ahead and did his work and took the risks, and asked no pay.