“Oor Bob'll fetch him!” they roared, their blood leaping to fever heat, and gripped their sticks, determined in stern reality to follow now.
The gray champion trotted up on to the bridge, and paused again, the long hair about his neck rising like a ruff, and a strange glint in his eyes; and the holder of the bridge never moved. Red and Gray stood thus, face to face: the one gay yet resolute, the other motionless, his great head slowly sinking between his forelegs, seemingly petrified.
There was no shouting now: it was time for deeds, not words. Only, above the stillness, came a sound from the bridge like the snore of a giant in his sleep, and blending, with it, a low, deep, purring thunder like some monster cat well pleased.
“Wullie,” came a solitary voice from the far side, “keep the bridge!”
One ear went back, one ear was still forward; the great head was low and lower between his forelegs and the glowing eyes rolled upward so that the watchers could see the murderous white.
Forward the gray dog stepped.
Then, for the second time that afternoon, a voice, stern and hard, came ringing down from the slope above over the heads of the many.
“Bob, lad, coom back!”
“He! he! I thocht that was comin',” sneered the small voice over the stream.
The gray dog heard, and checked.