Brave, big-hearted Major Sweeney! He had told the boys that night when they visited him at his home that within a few days he would depart for service. He had been commissioned a captain, and if they desired he would try to see to it that they were assigned to his company. And true to his word he had. Now he lay out there on the edge of that wood where so many lives had been sacrificed, an American hero, gone to his last reward. With the permission of the Captain the three youths armed themselves with searchlights, the sentry pass-word, spades, a hammer and saw. It was Sergeant Tom who thought of a little can of paint and a brush. It was half an hour before they reached the wood, and an hour later before they found the body. It was a ghastly business, and more than once they thought they were at the right spot, only to find that the search must be renewed. When at last Tom’s sense of direction brought them to the exact place, they found the body lying just as Tom had left it, the blouse still slightly open, the hair smoothed back, the right hand resting peacefully on the breast. “Let him be buried near the spot where he fell,” said Tom, in subdued tones, as, sticking his searchlight into the ground so that it would give them sufficient light, he thrust his spade into the dirt and began preparing his major’s grave. Harper and Ollie joined in the work and within another half hour they had gently placed the body in its last resting place. To Tom fell the duty of saying the brief rites; a handful of dirt was thrown in, and then, anxious to have an unhappy duty over, they completed their task as rapidly as possible. While Ollie and Harper were doing that, Tom had sawed from a broad tree limb two fairly lengthy slats. These he nailed together in the form of a cross. And upon this cross he began to paint. He had inscribed the lateral board with the Major’s full name, and the battalion he commanded, and then abruptly he stopped, looking far over the desolate open stretch and through the black night to where he knew Thiaucourt to be—Thiaucourt, which had been their day’s objective; Thiaucourt, for the possession of which so many courageous Americans had died; Thiaucourt, where the men who had survived now lay stretched in heavy slumber; Thiaucourt, quiet and peaceful now and giving no evidence of the terrific battle in which it had been the goal. And Tom, taking his brush in hand again, dipped it into the can and painted a brief inscription: “_At Rest._” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER X THE SPY IN THE NIGHT