James Moore s love of his lost wife than many a lordly cenotaph.

To the people of the Daleland, from the Black Water to the
market-cross in Grammoch-town, the news came with the shock
of a sudden blow. They had set their hearts on the Gray Dog s
success; and had felt serenely confident of his victory. But the
sting of the matter lay in this: that now the Tailless Tyke might
well win.

M'Adam, on the other hand, was plunged into a fervor of delight at
the news. For to win the Shepherds' Trophy was the goal of his
ambition. David was now less than nothing to the lonely little man,
Red Wull everything to him. And to have that name handed down
to posterity, gallantly holding its place among those of the most
famous sheep-dogs of all time, was his heart's desire.

As Cup Day drew near, the little man, his fine-drawn temperament
strung to the highest pitch of nervousness, was tossed on a sea of
apprehension. His hopes and fears ebbed and flowed on the tide of
the moment. His moods were as uncertain as the winds in March;
and there was no dependence on his humor for a unit of time. At
one minute he paced up and down the kitchen, his face already
flushed with the glow of victory, chanting:

"Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled !"

At the next he was down at the table, his head buried in his hands,
his whole figure shaking, as he cried in choking voice: "Eh,
Wullie, Wullie, they're all agin us."