ear as could 'maist knock a h'ox."

Jim's hands travelled from the body to the dead creature's throat. He
screamed.

"By gob, Master! look 'ee theer!" He held his hand up in the moonlight,
and it dripped red. "And warm yet! warm!"

"Tear some bracken, Jim!" ordered the other, "and set alight. We mun see
to this."

The postman did as bid. For a moment the fern smouldered and smoked,
then the flame ran crackling along and shot up in the darkness,
weirdly lighting the scene: to the right the low wood, a block of solid
blackness against the sky; in front the wall of sheep, staring out of
the gloom with bright eyes; and as centre-piece that still, white body,
with the kneeling men and lurcher sniffing tentatively round.

The victim was subjected to a critical examination. The throat, and that
only, had been hideously mauled; from the raw wounds the flesh hung in
horrid shreds; on the ground all about were little pitiful dabs of
wool, wrenched off apparently in a struggle; and, crawling among the
fern-roots, a snake-like track of red led down to the stream.

"A dog's doin', and no mistakin' thot," said Jim at length, after a
minute inspection.

"Ay," declared the Master with slow emphasis, "and a sheep-dog's too,
and an old un's, or I'm no shepherd."

The postman looked up.

"Why thot?" he asked, puzzled.

"Becos," the Master answered, "'im as did this killed for blood--and for
blood only. If had bin ony other dog--greyhound, bull, tarrier, or even
a young sheep-dog--d'yo' think he'd ha' stopped wi' the one? Not he;
he'd ha' gone through 'em, and be runnin' 'em as like as not yet,
nippin' 'em, pullin' 'em down, till he'd maybe killed the half. But 'im
as did this killed for blood, I say. He got it--killed just the one, and
nary touched the others, d'yo 'see, Jim?"

The postman whistled, long and low.

"It's just what owd Wrottesley'd tell on," he said. "I never nob'but
half believed him then--I do now though. D'yo' mind what th' owd lad'd
tell, Master?"

James Moore nodded.

"Thot's it. I've never seen the like afore myself, but I've heard ma
grandad speak o't mony's the time. An owd dog'll git the cravin' for
sheep's blood on him, just the same as a mon does for the drink; he
creeps oot o' nights, gallops afar, hunts his sheep, downs 'er, and
satisfies the cravin'. And he nary kills but the one, they say, for he
knows the value o' sheep same as you and me. He has his gallop, quenches
the thirst, and then h