ve him on the hill-side,
he could now hear the rattle of the flying feet. He started hotly in
pursuit, and then, recognizing the futility of following where he
could not see his hand, desisted. So he stood motionless, listening
and peering into the blackness, hoping Th' Owd Un was on the villain's
heels.

He prayed for the moon; and, as though in answer, the lantern of the
night shone out and lit the dour face of the Chair above him. He shot a
glance at his feet; and thanked heaven on finding the gray dog was not
beside him.

Then he looked up. The sheep had broken, and were scattered over the
steep hill-side, still galloping madly. In the rout one pair of darting
figures caught and held his gaze: the foremost dodging, twisting,
speeding upward, the hinder hard on the leader's heels, swift,
remorseless, never changing. He looked for a third pursuing form; but
none could he discern.

"He mun ha' missed him in the dark," the Master muttered, the sweat
standing on his brow, as he strained his eyes upward.

Higher and higher sped those two dark specks, far out-topping the
scattered remnant of the flock. Up and up, until of a sudden the sheer
Fall dropped its relentless barrier in the path of the fugitive. Away,
scudding along the foot of the rock-wall struck the familiar track
leading to the Scoop, and up it, bleating pitifully, nigh spent, the
Killer hard on her now.

"He'll doon her in the Scoop!" cried the Master hoarsely, following
with fascinated eyes. "Owd Un! Owd Un! wheer iver are yo' gotten to?" he
called in agony; but no Owd Un made reply.

As they reached the summit, just as he had prophesied, the two black
dots were one; and down they rolled together into the hollow of the
Scoop, out of the Master's ken. At the same instant the moon, as though
loth to watch the last act of the bloody play, veiled her face.

It was his chance. "Noo!"--and up the hillside he sped like a young man,
girding his loins for the struggle. The slope grew steep and steeper;
but on and on he held in the darkness, gasping painfully, yet running
still, until the face of the Fall blocked his way too.

There he paused a moment, and whistled a low call. Could he but dispatch
the old dog up the one path to the Scoop, while he took the other, the
murderer's one road to safety would be blocked.

He waited, all expectant; but no cold muzzle was shoved into his hand.
Again he whistled. A pebble from above almost dropped on him, as if the