It was Herbert’s intention to lie low, as before, until again discovered. Not one of these Germans now in the valley could have known of the existence of the Americans in their midst; in the shifting about those who had previously attacked the position on the hillside must have been moved elsewhere prior to the retreat, or else had all been captured in the new drive. But Herbert’s well-laid plan to surprise the enemy went wrong, as plans often do, though this was due to no lack of foresight on his part. There was always the chance of information of the position of the Yanks being given. And now this very thing happened. Don had an eye at one of the peep-holes. He was observing with swift comprehension all that was transpiring down the hill. Suddenly the lad saw that which no one else in the squad could have as fully understood. Hastening forward through the woods and up the hill came a man dressed in the uniform of an American officer and accompanied by two German lieutenants, the commanders of this platoon. At first it seemed as though this khaki-clad individual was but a prisoner, tamely submitting. Then, as he drew nearer, it could be observed that there was a white ribbon tied on either arm and one on his service cap, one mark of the spy by which his friends the Huns would know him. But Don saw more than this; he saw that this apparent American was short, heavy-set, swarthy; then he knew the fellow. Don, it must be remembered, was not a soldier; he had not been enlisted as a fighting man. His first experience on the front was as a saver of life, instead of one who was expected to kill, though in the latter capacity he had visited upon one spy and the murderer of his dear friend Billy Mearns a just revenge. Now with the Intelligence Division it had not been expected of him to enter battle, nor to use firearms, except in extreme cases. But for the last two days he had been allied with several extreme cases involving a most warlike undertaking and to play the soldier had been as much his part as that of any member of the squad with Herbert Whitcomb. The taking part in war, of shooting, under excitement, at the enemy line, or picking out figures in that line as special marks to hit seemed truly enough the office of a fighting man, but the act of deliberately shooting down an individual, especially when the victim was unaware of his peril, must appear to him who reasons more of an assassination than warfare. Justifiable homicide, it might indeed be, for there may be such a thing, even outside of the bounds of war, but in the deliberate act itself there cannot be utter disregard of its cold-blooded character.