done, mostly for the same reason that Hugh had stayed with his sheep,—because it was the inner law of the breed from which he sprung. He was the shepherd dog, and he had fulfilled his obligation even to the death. Many of his breed before him had done as much. Many would come after—humble, unlauded—and obey to the inevitable end the same laws. The high schemes of the Universe were dimly before her eyes.
The dog barked again, then encircled the tree and licked softly at her hands. It occurred to the girl that she might try to make her position plain to the dog, urging him to bring his master to her aid. Yet she couldn't gesture with her pinioned arms, and the understanding of Shep did not go out to words alone. She couldn't write a note to fasten to the dog's collar. "Help me, Shep," she pleaded. "Go and get help." The dog whined again, and she felt his warm tongue at her palm. "Can you hear me, Shep? Can't you understand?"
As if in obedience, the dog turned and sped away. But in this last fearful hour she could not make herself accept even this shadow of a hope. Besides, Hugh was probably already dead or hemmed in by the two converging crescents of fire. She found herself wishing that the dog had stayed. He would be company for her in that last awful moment just before the shadow would drop down for good and all. She found herself dreaming that if he had only stayed, perhaps his
