The army of dogs had vanished. The woods, the moor, the sea, were bathed in white colour.
Punch ran forward with a cry; he was down on his knees and his arms were round the dog’s body.
He bent down, and for a moment there was perfect silence, only, in a far distant field, some sheep was crying. Then he looked up.
The tears were rolling down his face; he lifted his hand and brushed them back. “It’s Toby. My dog! ’E’s been killed. Something’s torn ’im. . . .”
He bent down and picked it up and held it in his arms. “Toby, old dog, it’s time to go back. It’s all right; ’e hasn’t hurt you, old boy. It’s all right.” He broke off. “Curse him,” he said, “curse him! ’E did it—I know his marks—I’ll kill ’im for it.” His hands fell down to his side. “Toby, old dog! Toby. . . .”
The moon crept back again behind the mist. In the shadow the man sat nursing the dog in his arms.
Far below him sounded the sea.
PART III
THE TOWER