“It is a bit like potting a trapped beast,” added Lord Pelton.
Half running, they reached the open end of the enclosure. As they did so, and before they could see within, it was plain that the place was a sheep refuge. The odor was pungent even in the cool, clean air. As the three hunters sprang into the opening and caught sight of its interior, curiosity turned to speechless amazement. A narrow shelf of rock surrounded a depression in which there were a few inches of stagnant water. On the far side of the enclosure and on the widest part of the shelf stood, massed together, perhaps thirty sheep. A foot above them, in a half cave, lay a monster ram; gaunt and gray but with his head erect. On his face, beneath a sweep of worn and corrugated horns, were the outlines of a black cross.
[CHAPTER XX]
A MONARCH TO THE DEATH
For several moments none of the astounded hunters spoke. Frank was trembling with excitement. Phil seemed to have lost his reason. The latter boy turned as if to walk away. Lord Pelton was the first to recover his senses.
“It’s the old ram,” he muttered.
“Yes, yes, the old ram,” repeated Phil in a dazed way.
Frank laughed hysterically.
“What’s the matter?” continued the Englishman. “Aren’t you goin’ to bag him?”