Then the light went in, and darkness covered the land. Chapter XXIX THE DEVIL'S BOWL IT was Owd Bob. There could be no mistaking. In the wide world there was but one Owd Bob o' Kenmuir. The silver moon gleamed down on the dark head and rough gray coat, and lit the white escutcheon on his chest. And in the darkness James Moore was lying with his face pressed downward that he might not see. Once he raised himself on his arms; his eyes were shut and face uplifted, like a blind man praying. He passed a weary hand across his brow; his head dropped again; and he moaned and moaned like a man in everlasting pain. Then the darkness lifted a moment, and he stole a furtive glance, like a murderer's at the gallows-tree, at the scene in front. It was no dream; clear and cruel in the moonlight the humpbacked boulder; the dead sheep; and that gray figure, beautiful, motionless, damned for all eternity. The Master turned his face and looked at Andrew, a dumb, pitiful entreaty in his eyes; but in the boy's white, horror-stricken countenance was no comfort. Then his head lolled down again, and the strong man was whimpering. “He! he! he! 'Scuse ma laffin', Mr. Moore--he! he! he!” A little man, all wet and shrunk, sat hunching on a mound above them, rocking his shrivelled form to and fro in the agony of his merriment. “Ye raskil--he! he! Ye rogue--he! he!” and he shook his fist waggishly at the unconscious gray dog. “I owe ye anither grudge for this--ye've anteecipated me”--and he leant back and shook this way and that in convulsive mirth. The man below him rose heavily to his feet, and tumbled toward the mocker, his great figure swaying from side to side as though in blind delirium, moaning still as he went. And there was that on his face which no man can mistake. Boy that he was, Andrew knew it. “Feyther! feyther! do'ee not!” he pleaded, running after his father and laying impotent hands on him. But the strong man shook him off like a fly, and rolled on, swaying and groaning, with that awful expression plain to see in the moonlight. In front the little man squatted in the rain, bowed double still; and took no thought to flee. “Come on, James Moore! Come on!” he laughed, malignant joy in his voice; and something gleamed bright in his right hand, and was hid again. “I've bin waitin' this a weary while noo. Come on!” Then had there been done something worse than sheep-murder in the dreadful lonesomeness of the Devil's Bowl upon that night; but of a sudden, there sounded the splash of a man's foot, falling heavily behind; a hand like a falling tree smote the Master on the shoulder; and a voice roared above the noise of the storm: “Mr. Moore! Look, man! look!” The Master tried to shake off that detaining grasp; but it pinned him where he was, immovable. “Look, I tell yo'!” cried that great voice again. A hand pushed past him and pointed; and sullenly he turned, ignoring the figure at his side, and looked.