The animal seemed to understand. A great, brooding sorrow came into his intelligent eyes. Here was the third of them that had given his all for the sheep, one who had stayed for his work when his swift legs and sure instincts could have saved him from the fire; and when all is said and done, mostly for the same reason that Hugh had stayed with his sheep,—because it was the inner law of the breed from which he sprung. He was the shepherd dog, and he had fulfilled his obligation even to the death. Many of his breed before him had done as much. Many would come after—humble, unlauded—and obey to the inevitable end the same laws. The high schemes of the Universe were dimly before her eyes. The dog barked again, then encircled the tree and licked softly at her hands. It occurred to the girl that she might try to make her position plain to the dog, urging him to bring his master to her aid. Yet she couldn’t gesture with her pinioned arms, and the understanding of Shep did not go out to words alone. She couldn’t write a note to fasten to the dog’s collar. “Help me, Shep,” she pleaded. “Go and get help.” The dog whined again, and she felt his warm tongue at her palm. “Can you hear me, Shep? Can’t you understand?” As if in obedience, the dog turned and sped away. But in this last fearful hour she could not make herself accept even this shadow of a hope. Besides, Hugh was probably already dead or hemmed in by the two converging crescents of fire. She found herself wishing that the dog had stayed. He would be company for her in that last awful moment just before the shadow would drop down for good and all. She found herself dreaming that if he had only stayed, perhaps his kindly fangs would play—just one little time—at her throat, saving her from the final agony. He had always understood so well: perhaps he would have helped her cheat those stealing tongues of red that ever crept nearer. She couldn’t reach the pistol at her waist to cheat them herself. At least, she might have partaken of Shep’s own great spirit of strength. She was alone and afraid at the dark frontier of death. There was no help, no mercy from the flames: the shadows hovered close. She wished she had stayed with Hugh. Death and its agony would not seem so fearful then, in the shelter of his arms. Now his kiss was cold upon her lips; but with their love to sustain them they could have faced bravely their remorseless doom. Smoke drifted around her. Most of it was carried up and away, yet perhaps it would bring merciful unconsciousness before the flames should creep up to her. * * * * *