Suddenly there was a cry from Sandy.
He threw down the staff and sprang to his feet.
"The herd!" he shouted. "They're off!"
Sure enough! Without a cry the leaders had started for the rimrock, and in their wake—straight for the face of the precipice—was running the entire flock.
"They're startled!" gasped Sandy. "We must head 'em off. Run for your life! We must get between the brainless creatures and the cliff before they go over."
Donald ran. He had never run so before. His training as a track sprinter stood him in good stead now. But he had never been a long-distance runner. Two hundred yards was his limit. Moreover he was not in training. But he ran—ran as he did not know he could run. He gained on the sheep. Sandy, in the meantime, was waving his arms to the dogs who, understanding his slightest motion, now dashed ahead. The sheep, however, were far in advance by this time. On they sped in mad panic. Donald could run no more. He began to lag, his heart beating like a hammer. Even Sandy, who from the opposite direction was racing for the edge of the rock, slackened his pace.
The race was a hopeless one.
Then without warning, out of the trees at the left side of the field rode a horseman at full gallop. With flying hoofs he cut in ahead of the herd just as they neared the face of the rock.
The leaders swerved, circled, and turned about. The gait of the stampeding flock lessened. The dogs skilfully steered the approaching sheep out to one side where Sandy scattered them that they might not collide with the ranks coming toward them. Gradually the fears of the flock became quieted. Falling into a walk they worked their way into their customary places and turned about, feeding as they went.
Immediately when Sandy saw them safe he pressed forward to the side of the horseman where he beckoned Donald to join him.