“Yes, Bruce knew what the end was bound to be.  He knew it.  And he kept on, as gay and as brave as if he was on a day’s romp.  He never flinched.  Not even that time the K.O. sent him up the hill for reenforcements at Rache, when every sharpshooter in the boche trenches was laying for him, and when the machine guns were trained on him, too.  Bruce knew he was running into death—­, then and a dozen other times.  And he went at it like a white man.

“I’m—­I’m getting longwinded.  And I’ll stop.  But—­maybe if you boys will remember the Big Dog—­and what he did for us,—­when you get back home,—­if you’ll remember him and what he did and what thousands of other war-dogs have done,—­then maybe you’ll be men enough to punch the jaw of any guy who gets to saying that dogs are nuisances and that vivisection’s a good thing, and all that.  If you’ll just do that much, then—­well, then Bruce hasn’t lived and died for nothing!

“Brucie, old boy,” bending to lift the tawny body and lower it into the grave, “it’s good-by.  It’s good-by to the cleanest, whitest pal that a poor dub of a doughboy ever had.  I—­”

Mahan glowered across at the clump of silent men.

“If anybody thinks I’m crying,” he continued thickly, “he’s a liar.  I got a cold, and—­”

“Sacre bon Dieu!” yelled old Vivier, insanely.  “Regarde-donc!  Nom d’une pipe!”

He knelt quickly beside the body, in an ecstasy of excitement.  The others craned their necks to see.  Then from a hundred throats went up a gasp of amazement.

Bruce, slowly and dazedly, was lifting his magnificent head!

“Chase off for the surgeon!” bellowed Mahan, plumping down on his knees beside Vivier and examining the wound in the dog’s scalp.  “The bullet only creased his skull!  It didn’t go through!  It’s just put him out for a few hours, like I’ve seen it do to men.  Get the surgeon!  If that bullet in his body didn’t hit something vital, we’ll pull him around, yet!  Glory be!”

* * * * * * * * * * *

It was late summer again at The Place, late opulent summer, with the peace of green earth and blue sky, the heavy droning of bees and the promise of harvest.  The long shadows of late afternoon stretched lovingly across the lawn, from the great lakeside trees.  Over everything brooded a dreamy amber light.  The war seemed a million miles away.

The Mistress and the Master came down from the vine-shaded veranda for their sunset walk through the grounds.  At sound of their steps on the gravel, a huge dark-brown-and-white collie emerged from his resting-place under the wistaria-arbor.

He stretched himself lazily, fore and aft, in collie-fashion.  Then he trotted up to his two deities and thrust his muzzle playfully into the Mistress’s palm, as he fell into step with the promenaders.

He walked with a stiffness in one foreleg.  His gait was not a limp.  But the leg’s strength could no longer be relied on for a ten-mile gallop.  Along his forehead was a new-healed bullet-crease.  And the fur on his sides had scarcely yet grown over the mark of the high-powered ball which had gone clear through him without touching a mortal spot.