Slowly the sun sank and the haze thickened; but she still stood there with her eyes on the Cove. On the moor above a shepherd was gathering his sheep. She could not see him, but occasionally the sound of his voice reached her ear, and more regularly the sharp admonitory bark of dogs. Incuriously she turned her eyes in the direction and saw through the mist the shadowy forms of the flock 300 feet above her head. There were two dogs, she noticed, and by that sign knew that the voice she had heard was Swithin’s. One of the dogs was young and frolicsome, and had much to learn of life’s responsibilities. It was fussing about the outside of the flock now, harassing the sheep instead of guiding them, out of mere playfulness and mischief. One of them, tormented beyond endurance, broke away from the rest and ran down the slope towards the side of the Cove, pursued by the dog which made no attempt to head it off until a stern cry from the shepherd sought to bring it to a sense of its duty, when it stood still and gazed upwards. By this time the older dog was tearing down the precipitous slope, but the sheep was already on the grassy track that ran out on to the narrow ledge on the cliff face, where the shepherd could not see it. “There’s the devil of a mess there,” said a voice in Nancy’s ear that she recognised as Inman’s. She experienced no sensation of surprise, just as she had felt none of excitement or suspense at what was happening before her eyes. For the moment she was dead to all external experiences and thrills, and the real was shadowy as a dream. “Ben will fetch her back,” she said. “It was Robin’s fault: he drove her there and now hangs back.” It was true. Swithin was clambering down the steep slope with an old man’s slow speed and the young dog was standing a body’s length behind Ben who was on the ledge, silent and calculating. Then there came an angry call, and Robin turned and slunk back up the hill at a careful distance from his master. Meantime the sheep was also standing with its head turned inquiringly in the direction of old Ben, who was creeping quietly forward. “If it goes another step its number’s up,” said Inman coolly. “I’ve been on there as far as it was safe to go, and I know what I’m talking about. It’s barely room to turn now.” “Lots of animals have lost their lives there,” Nancy replied in a dull voice. “Once a fox got on and couldn’t get back. It dropped to the bottom.” She was roused now and fascinated with the tragedy that was taking place before her eyes; but Inman took a cigarette from the case in his waistcoat pocket and lit it deliberately. “The old dog’s got it weighed up,” he said, as he tossed the match away. “What’s he going to do?” Almost as he spoke, the question was answered. The sheep had half turned, but seemed to hesitate, and suddenly Ben sprang forward, quite over the sheep’s back; struggled for a second or two to keep his feet,—and fell down the face of the cliff.