He stood huddled in the corner, all dishevelled, nursing one arm with the other, entirely unafraid. “Mind, David,” he said, quite calm, “murder 'twill be, not manslaughter.” “Murder 'twill be,” the boy answered, in thick, low voice, and was across the room. Outside Red Wull banged and clawed high up on the door with impotent pats. The little man suddenly slipped his hand in his pocket, pulled out something, and flung it. The missile pattered on his son's face like a rain-drop on a charging bull, and David smiled as he came on. It dropped softly on the table at his side; he looked down and--it was the face of his mother which gazed up at him! “Mither!” he sobbed, stopping short. “Mither! Ma God, ye saved him--and me!” He stood there, utterly unhinged, shaking and whimpering. It was some minutes before he pulled himself together; then he walked to the wall, took down a pair of shears, and seated himself at the table, still trembling. Near him lay the miniature, all torn and crumpled, and beside it the deep-buried axe-head. He picked up the strap and began cutting it into little pieces. “There! and there! and there!” he said with each snip. “An' ye hit me agin there may be no mither to save ye.” M'Adam stood huddling in the corner. He shook like an aspen leaf; his eyes blazed in his white face; and he still nursed one arm with the other. “Honor yer father,” he quoted in small, low voice. PART IV THE BLACK KILLER Chapter XIV. A MAD MAN TAMMAS is on his feet in the tap-room of the Arms, brandishing a pewter mug. “Gen'lemen!” he cries, his old face flushed; “I gie you a toast. Stan' oop!” The knot of Dalesmen round the fire rises like one. The old man waves his mug before him, reckless of the good ale that drips on to the floor. “The best sheep-dog i' th' North--Owd Bob o' Kenmuir!” he cries. In an instant there is uproar: the merry applause of clinking pewters; the stamping of feet; the rattle of sticks. Rob Saunderson and old Jonas are cheering with the best; Tupper and Ned Hoppin are bellowing in one another's ears; Long Kirby and Jem Burton are thumping each other on the back; even Sam'l Todd and Sexton Ross are roused from their habitual melancholy. “Here's to Th' Owd Un! Here's to oor Bob!” yell stentorian voices; while Rob Saunderson has jumped on to a chair. “Wi' the best sheep-dog i' th' North I gie yo' the Shepherd's Trophy!--won outreet as will be!” he cries. Instantly the clamor redoubles. “The Dale Cup and Th' Owd Un! The Trophy and oor Bob! 'Ip, 'ip, for the gray dogs! 'Ip, 'ip, for the best sheep-dog as ever was or will be! 'Ooray, 'ooray!” It is some minutes before the noise subsides; and slowly the enthusiasts resume their seats with hoarse throats and red faces. “Gentlemen a'!” A little unconsidered man is standing up at the back of the room. His face is aflame, and his hands twitch spasmodically; and, in front, with hackles up and eyes gleaming, is a huge, bull-like dog.