“Oh, by the by!” burst in the squire. “I've fixed the Manor dinner for to-day fortnight, James. Tell Saunderson and Tupper, will you? Want all the tenants there.” He disappeared into the crowd, but in a minute had fought his way back. “I'd forgotten something!” he shouted. “Tell your Maggie perhaps you'll have news for her after it eh! eh!” and he was gone again. Last of all, James Moore was aware of a white, blotchy, grinning face at his elbow. “I maun congratulate ye, Mr. Moore. Ye've beat us--you and the gentlemen--judges.” “'Twas a close thing, M'Adam,” the other answered. “An' yo' made a gran' fight. In ma life I niver saw a finer turn than yours by the two flags yonder. I hope yo' bear no malice.” “Malice! Me? Is it likely? Na, na. 'Do onto ivery man as he does onto you--and somethin' over,' that's my motter. I owe ye mony a good turn, which I'll pay ye yet. Na, na; there's nae good fechtin' agin fate--and the judges. Weel, I wush you well o' yer victory. Aiblins' twill be oor turn next.” Then a rush, headed by Sam'l, roughly hustled the one away and bore the other off on its shoulders in boisterous triumph. * * * * * In giving the Cup away, Lady Eleanour made a prettier speech than ever. Yet all the while she was haunted by a white, miserable face; and all the while she was conscious of two black moving dots in the Murk Muir Pass opposite her--solitary, desolate, a contrast to the huzzaing crowd around. * * * * * That is how the champion challenge Dale Cup, the world-known Shepherds' Trophy, came to wander no more; won outright by the last of the Gray Dogs of Kenmuir--Owd Bob. Why he was the last of the Gray Dogs is now to be told. PART VI THE BLACK KILLER Chapter XXVI RED-HANDED THE SUN was hiding behind the Pike. Over the lowlands the feathery breath of night hovered still. And the hillside was shivering in the chillness of dawn. Down on the silvery sward beside the Stony Bottom there lay the ruffled body of a dead sheep. All about the victim the dewy ground was dark and patchy like dishevelled velvet; bracken trampled down; stones displaced as though by straggling feet; and the whole spotted with the all-pervading red. A score yards up the hill, in a writhing confusion of red and gray, two dogs at death-grips. While yet higher, a pack of wild-eyed hill-sheep watched, fascinated, the bloody drama. The fight raged. Red and gray, blood-spattered, murderous-eyed; the crimson froth dripping from their jaws; now rearing high with arching crests and wrestling paws; now rolling over in tumbling, tossing, worrying disorder--the two fought out their blood-feud. Above, the close-packed flock huddled and stamped, ever edging nearer to watch the issue. Just so must the women of Rome have craned round the arenas to see two men striving in death-struggle.