At the cry the huddle below was convulsed. It 

 heaved and swayed and dragged to and fro, 

 like the sea lashed into life by some dying 

 leviathan. 



A gigantic figure, tawny and red, fought its 

 way to the surface. A great tossing head, gory 

 past recognition, flung out from the ruck. One 

 quick glance he shot from ragged eyes at the 

 little flying figure in front ; then with a roar like 

 a waterfall plunged towards it, shaking off the 

 bloody leeches as he went. 



" Wullie ! Wullie ! I'm wi' ye ! " cried that little 

 voice, now so near. 



Through — through — through ! an incomparable 

 effort, and his last. 



They hung to his throat, they clung to his 

 muzzle, they were round and about him. 



Down he went again with a sob and a little 

 suffocating cry, shooting up at his master one 

 quick beseeching glance as the sea of blood closed 

 over him — worrying, smothering, tearing, like 

 foxhounds at the kill. 



They left the dead, and pulled away the living. 

 And it was no light task, for the pack were mad 

 for blood. 



At the bottom of the wet mess of hair and red 

 and flesh was old Shep, stone-dead. And as 

 Saunderson pulled the body out, his face was 



2 17 



