He understood. Her hand stole around him and touched the butt of his pistol. For a long breath he waged an inward battle, and he called on all the powers of his spirit to give him strength. But it was true that they were of the mountains; and they saw issues straight. This was no hour for emotionalism and folly. The flames swept nearer; but with one press of his finger on the revolver trigger he could save this girl he loved the final horror of a fiery death. One shock, one sweep through the darkness, and then peace: not the slow agony of the enfolding flames. He could not do better service. He was the shepherd still. “Yes,” he promised. “I’ll do it—at the end of the hour. And the dog too.” It was only fair to include the dog. He was one of the triumvirate. He had kept faith, he had stood the test. The moments were born, passed and died. The tall trees caught, flamed, and fell. The smoke clouds gathered, enfolded the three of them, and passed on. They were nearly blind from the wood smoke, the heat had become almost too much for living flesh to bear. There was no need of waiting longer, perhaps to fall into unconsciousness from the smoke and then to waken to feel the flames licking at the flesh. The wall of fire was still nearly a mile distant to the west, but its march was swift. Hugh’s terror had gone, and he found himself longing for such cool peace as would follow the third revolver shot. The girl’s lips pressed his. She knew the progress of his thoughts. “There’s no use of waiting any longer,” she said unwaveringly. “Let me be the first.” “The dog first,” he told her. He couldn’t get away from an all-engrossing desire to keep her with him to the end, and to spring out of life with his hands in hers. Perhaps it would be kinder to spare her the sight of Shep’s death—yet his spirit lacked the strength. “The dog first,” the girl repeated. “And don’t—wait—any more.” The dog’s appealing eyes were upon them. Their own spirit—that of immortality itself which only men seem to possess—had pervaded him, and the dark eyes seemed unafraid. To the beasts, death is a darkness and a fear; but Shep knew that these two masters would have only mercy and kindness for him. Hugh’s hand reached back for the revolver. But the forest gods had not written that Shep should die so soon. The drama of the flaming forest was not yet over. An interlude strange and startling past all words; three figures—vivid in outline and bathed in the fire’s glow—came speeding toward them from the thickets to the east. A gasp of wonder fell from Hugh’s lips as he beheld them.