seated instinct when he carried the slain to Auld Jock's grave.
Trophies of the chase were always to be laid at the feet of the
master.

"Gude dog! eh, but ye're a bonny wee fechter!" Auld Jock had
always said after such an exploit; and Bobby had been petted and
praised until he nearly wagged his crested tail off with
happiness and pride. Then he had been given some choice tidbit of
food as a reward for his prowess. The farmer of Cauldbrae had on
such occasions admitted that Bobby might be of use about barn and
dairy, and Mr. Traill had commended his capture of prowlers in
the dining-room. But Bobby was "ower young" and had not been "put
to the vermin" as a definite business in life. He caught a rat,
now and then, as he chased rabbits, merely as a diversion. When
he had caught this one he lay down again. But after a time he got
up deliberately and trotted down to the encircling line of old
courtyarded tombs. There were nooks and crannies between and
behind these along the wall into which the caretaker could not
penetrate with sickle, rake and spade, that formed sheltered
runways for rodents.

A long, low, weasel-like dog that could flatten himself on the
ground, Bobby squeezed between railings and pedestals, scrambled
over fallen fragments of sculptured urns, trumpets, angels'
wings, altars, skull and cross-bones, and Latin inscribed
scrolls. He went on his stomach under holly and laurel shrubs,
burdocks, thistles, and tangled, dead vines. Here and there he lay
in such rubbish as motionless as the effigies careen on marble
biers. With the growing light grew the heap of the slain on Auld
Jock's grave.