knew that it had cruel talons that could lift him in the air and carry him to a fearful land of cold and darkness whence he would never return. The sheep do not ordinarily watch the skies—the range of their eyes is downward—and thus the only way to mark Swift Wing's approach was to see his shadow on the crags. And once when the shadow of a lazy buzzard flicked across the meadow—a sight unnoticed by the other lambs—Spot's little heart choked with terror, and he tried to squirm under the ewe's body.
Cliffs, waterfalls, snow-capped peaks! What did little Spot know of them? He was born on the lower foothills, and from the highest camp where Hugh drove the flock the peaks were still far aloft, glittering in the sun. Yet Spot knew them. In his dreams he knew exactly how the waters broke, gleamed, and roared as they dropped from ledge to ledge; he knew the feel of the firm snow under his hoofs, the glory of the sun from the topmost spire of the highest peak, the touch of the cold crags as he lay in the sun.
His dreams were ever so much more real to him than his realities: the band of patient ewes, the firelight of the herder, the slow grazing over the wide stretches of green grass. In fact, Spot put no trust in camp fires and herders. The herder, he felt in the depths of his heart, should be eyed with suspicion. This strange, forked breed was no companion of his. He couldn't get away from a feeling of strangeness and unfa-
