Wheeling about, head down, he faced
the storm again; and set off at what speed he could compass,
toward home, to lead the Master to the spot where Cyril was
trapped. This seemed the only expedient left. It was what he had
done, long ago, when Lady had caught her foot in a fox-trap, back
in the woods.
As the dog vanished from against the gray-black sky-line, Cyril
set up a howl of wrathful command to him to come back. Anything
was better than to be in this dreary spot alone. Besides, with
Lad gone, how could Lad's Master find the way to the ledge?
Twice the child called after the retreating collie. And, in
another few steps, Lad had halted and begun to retrace his way
toward the ledge.
He did not return because of Cyril's call. He had learned, by
ugly experience, to disregard the child's orders. They were wont
to mean much unpleasantness for him. Nevertheless, Lad halted.
Not in obedience to the summons; but because of a sound and a
scent that smote him as he started to gallop away. An eddy of the
wind had borne both to the dog's acute senses.
Stiffening, his curved eyeteeth baring themselves, his hackles
bristling, Lad galloped back to the ravine-lip; and stood there
sniffing the icy air and growling deep in his throat.
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