e of the easternmost rock, Stolz primly
opened his sewing-bag and drew forth various torn garments. The
garments were for the most part white, but one or two were of gaudy
colors.

By way of precaution, in case of discovery, the spy threaded a needle.
Thus, if any one should chance to see him shake out a garment,
preparatory to laying it on his knee and mending it, there could be no
reasonable cause for suspicion. Herr Stolz was nothing if not efficient.

He held up the needle and poked the thread at its eye in truly feminine
fashion.

He had just finished this feat of dexterity when he chanced to look up
from his work at sound of fast-pattering feet. Not thirty feet away,
charging head on at him, rushed the great brown-and-white collie he
supposed had been shot.

With a jump of abject terror, Herr Stolz sprang up. Mingled with his
normal fear of the dog was a tinge of superstitious dread. He had been
so certain the beast was shot! The doctor had given the order for his
killing. The doctor was a commissioned officer. Stolz's German mind
could not grasp the possibility of a soldier disobeying an officer's
imperative command.

The collie was upon him by the time the spy gained his feet. Stolz
reached frantically under his dress-folds for the deadly little pistol
that he always kept there. But he was still a novice in the mysteries
of feminine apparel. And, before his fingers could close on the weapon,
Bruce's bared fangs were gleaming at his throat.

Stolz ceased to search for the weapon. And, as before, he threw up both
frantic hands to ward off the furious jaws.

He was barely in time. Bruce's white teeth drove deep into the spy's
forearm, and Bruce's eighty pounds of furry muscular bulk smote Stolz
full in the chest. Down went the spy, under the terrific impact,
sprawling wildly on his back, and fighting with both bleeding hands to
push back the dog.

Bruce, collie-fashion, did not stick to one grip, but bit and slashed a
dozen times in three seconds, tearing and rending his way toward the
throat-hold he craved; driving through flesh of hands and of forearms
toward his goal.

Like many another German, Stolz was far more adept at causing pain than
at enduring it. Also, from birth, he had had an unconquerable fear of
dogs. His nerves, too, were not yet recovered from Bruce's attack
earlier in the day. All this, and the spectral suddenness of the
onslaught, robbed him of every atom of his usual stony self-cont