Just before the dawn broke, Hugh and Alice stood behind the flock, safe and far from the ravages of the fire. Already Spot and his two ewes had sped up a precipitate trail—where, because of the steep rocks and the interference of Shep, the domestic sheep could not follow—and now all three thousand of them were quietly grazing at the very foot of the high mountains. And no man may say whether or not—like the lame child of Hamlin town—they gazed with wistful eyes toward the misty mountain realms where their leader had gone. They had been of the mountains too, when the world was young, and perhaps they found themselves longing for the steep ways and the hard days and the fierce delights that constitute the lives of those mountain monarchs, the bighorn sheep. The dawn grew in the east. The white peaks glowed and gleamed. And the girl’s brown hand crept into Hugh’s. “Did you know,” she asked him, whispering, “that we’ve won? That we’re safe, after all? The rangers are probably already on the way to fight the fire, and we’ve nothing more to fear.” He turned to her, and they had a moment of laughter in which they rejoiced at each other’s appearance. Their clothes were torn and half burned away; the man’s eyebrows and lashes were singed; and their skins were smudged with soot. But the perils and the stress had left no weight upon their spirits. They were blistered, hungry, desperately fatigued, but they were gloriously happy and triumphant. “We’ve won,” he echoed. “A few fatalities—but not enough to count.” He had engaged in much folly in his time, but it was to be said of Hugh that he wasted no emotion or maudlin words over the dead body of José in the burning brush behind. “And we can get Fargo too—on a charge of arson, at least. There will be some way to handle him. And the only thing left to talk about is you and I.” “Shep, too,” she reminded him soberly. The man glanced down into the loving brown eyes of the shepherd dog. He also was dirty and disheveled,—a shocking thing to be seen in a drawing-room but beloved past all utterance here. “Heaven forgive me, Shep, for forgetting you,” the man cried, dropping to his knees. He was quite sober as he held the dog a long moment in his strong arms. His bronzed face was intent. It was enough reward for Shep. His master released him, and he circled round the two of them, barking in mad joy. And after all they attended to Shep’s destinies very swiftly. No wealth on earth could take him from them. And because their thought was clear and their understanding great, they did not even consider banishing him to a life of ease,—a chimney corner where he might doze away the days. Shep was of the world of toil; until his noble spirit departed from his body he would still have his guard of honor over the sheep. He would still know the hard labor, the long grinding hours, the nervous sleep in the firelight beloved of long ago, and perhaps—for reward—a plain meal and a caress at the end of the day.