The fog had cleared away by now, and the moon was up. To their right, on the crest of a rise some two hundred yards away, a low wood stood out black against the sky. As they passed it, a blackbird rose up screaming, and a brace of wood-pigeons winged noisily away. “Hullo! hark to the yammerin'!” muttered Jim, stopping; “and at this time o' night too!” Some rabbits, playing in the moonlight on the outskirts of the wood, sat up, listened, and hopped back into security. At the same moment a big hill-fox slunk out of the covert. He stole a pace forward and halted, listening with one ear back and one pad raised; then cantered silently away in the gloom, passing close to the two men and yet not observing them. “What's up, I wonder?” mused the postman. “The fox set 'em clackerin', I reck'n,” said the Master. “Not he; he was scared 'maist oot o' his skin,” the other answered. Then in tones of suppressed excitement, with his hands on James Moore's arm: “And, look'ee, theer's ma Gyp a-beckonin' on us!” There, indeed, on the crest of the rise beside the wood, was the little lurcher, now looking back at his master, now creeping stealthily forward. “Ma word! theer's summat wrong yonder!” cried Jim, and jerked the post-bags off his shoulder. “Coom on, Master! “--and he set off running toward the dog; while James Moore, himself excited now, followed with an agility that belied his years. Some score yards from the lower edge of the spinney, upon the farther side of the ridge, a tiny beck babbled through its bed of peat. The two men, as they topped the rise, noticed a flock of black-faced mountain-sheep clustered in the dip 'twixt wood and stream. They stood martialled in close array, facing half toward the wood, half toward the newcomers, heads up, eyes glaring, handsome as sheep only look when scared. On the crest of the ridge the two men halted beside Gyp. The postman stood with his head a little forward, listening intently. Then he dropped in the heather like a dead man, pulling the other with him. “Doon, mon!” he whispered, clutching at Gyp with his spare hand. “What is't, Jim?” asked the Master, now thoroughly roused. “Summat movin' i' th' wood,” the other whispered, listening weasel-eared. So they lay motionless for a while; but there came no sound from the copse. “'Appen 'twas nowt,” the postman at length allowed, peering cautiously about. “And yet I thowt--I dunno reetly what I thowt.” Then, starting to his knees with a hoarse cry of terror: “Save us! what's yon theer?” Then for the first time the Master raised his head and noticed, lying in the gloom between them and the array of sheep, a still, white heap. James Moore was a man of deeds, not words. “It's past waitin'!” he said, and sprang forward, his heart in his mouth. The sheep stamped and shuffled as he came, and yet did not break.