That night Frank W. Pugh, of the regular army, a member of this unfortunate firing squad, who died later at Fort Worth, Texas, of fever contracted in the Philippines, sitting in his little dog-tent, meditating, wrote in his diary, which is now preserved in the archives at Washington with other relics of the war, the following appropriate poem: A CHRISTMAS COURT-MARTIAL "The night was dark and threatening rain, No stars were in the sky; We caught him hiding in the pines-- A Filipino spy. A slender youth with coal black eyes, Brim full of frightened tears; We turned him over to the guard, I fear with callous jeers. Next morning it was Christmas day, The sun was shining hot, A drum-head court had said, "The spy, Is sentenced to be shot." Erect before the officers, He still disdained to speak, Although a single crystal drop, Empearled his olive cheek. Upon a long and hurried march, In light array, you see, We could not take the boy along, So stood him near a tree; Told off the little firing squad, And ordered it in line. One gun was loaded in the lot-- I hope it was not mine. Birds in the branches overhead Sang softly in the heat. The grave, a trench of steaming sand, Gaped yellow at his feet; He faced us with a dauntless air, Although his lips were white;-- Our grim old Sergeant turned away, He could not stand the sight. A flash, a roar, a cloud of smoke, And headlong to the ground He fell face downward in the grave, And died without a sound. We turned him over on his back, And DEATH the TRUTH confessed, For through his open jacket peeped A Woman's tender breast." Marie Sampalit had earned her doom. After her grave had been filled, the soldier boys placed at its head a cartridge-box lid on which they inscribed the pitiful word, "UNKNOWN."