At the call the great dog leapt round, snarling in hideous passion. He saw the small, familiar figure, clear-cut against the tumbling sky; and for the only time in his life Red Wull was afraid. His blood-foe was forgotten; the dead sheep was forgotten; everything was sunk in the agony of that moment. He cowered upon the ground, and a cry like that of a lost soul was wrung from him; it rose on the still night air and floated, wailing, away; and the white waters of the Tarn thrilled in cold pity; out of the lonely hollow; over the desolate Marches; into the night. On the mound above stood his master. The little man's white hair was bared to the night wind; the rain trickled down his face; and his hands were folded behind his back. He stood there, looking down into the dell below him, as a man may stand at the tomb of his lately buried wife. And there was such an expression on his face as I cannot describe. “Wullie, Wullie, to me!” he cried at length; and his voice sounded weak and far, like a distant memory. At that, the huge brute came crawling toward him on his belly, whimpering as he came, very pitiful in his distress. He knew his fate as every sheep-dog knows it. That troubled him not. His pain, insufferable, was that this, his friend and father, who had trusted him, should have found him in his sin. So he crept up to his master's feet; and the little man never moved. “Wullie--ma Wullie!” he said very gently. “They've aye bin agin me--and noo you! A man's mither--a man's wife--a man's dog! they're all I've iver had; and noo ain o' they three has turned agin me! Indeed I am alone!” At that the great dog raised himself, and placing his forepaws on his master's chest tenderly, lest he should hurt him who was already hurt past healing, stood towering above him; while the little man laid his two colds hands on the dog's shoulders. So they stood, looking at one another, like a man and his love. * * * * * At M'Adam's word, Owd Bob looked up, and for the first time saw his master. He seemed in nowise startled, but trotted over to him. There was nothing fearful in his carriage, no haunting blood-guiltiness in the true gray eyes which never told a lie, which never, dog-like, failed to look you in the face. Yet his tail was low, and, as he stopped at his master's feet, he was quivering. For he, too, knew, and was not unmoved. For weeks he had tracked the Killer; for weeks he had followed him as he crossed Kenmuir, bound on his bloody errands; yet always had lost him on the Marches. Now, at last, he had run him to ground. Yet his heart went out to his enemy in his distress. “I thowt t'had been yo', lad,” the Master whispered, his hand on the dark head at his knee--“I thowt t'had bin yo'!” * * * * * Rooted to the ground, the three watched the scene between M'Adam and his Wull. In the end the Master was whimpering; Andrew crying; and David turned his back.