“It’s the dawn win’,” said Scottie, “an’ you bein’ up a’ night.”
Ess had lifted her head, and was listening intently.
“What’s the matter?” she said. “The sheep—don’t you hear? They’ve stopped crying.”
The men stared at her, and at one another. She was right—the sheep had stopped calling, and the silence after that night-and-day unceasing cry was eerie and strange.
Then high up the slope from the few sheep that had struggled there came a faint “baa-a-a.” The dense masses of sheep on the flats below raised their heads and answered the call—a few of them staggered to their feet and stumbled feebly towards the slope.
Scottie leaped to his feet, and his voice shook with excitement.
“It’s the win’,” he said hoarsely. “The dawn win’. It’s frae the east, and blawin’ ower the hills and the water, an’ they’ve smelt it. Eh, thank God, sir—ye are saved Coolongolong.”
Less than an hour later Steve stood on the track beside Ess.
“Your uncle sent me to drive you home,” he said. “There’s nothing more to do to-day. It’s not driving they’ll need now. They’ve winded the water, full scent, and while they’ve a breath of life or a drain of strength in their bodies they’ll go on till they reach it.”
“They’re crying again,” said Ess, and they stood and listened. The last of the sheep were trailing over the skyline, and the quavering call came faint and thin down wind to them.