conflict, the line upon which Ireland and England had broken their
pride. Sagging! And because Cameron was weakening! Cameron, the
brilliant half-back, the fierce-fighting, erratic young Highlander,
disciplined, steadied by the great Dunn into an instrument of Scotland's
glory! Cameron going back! A hush fell on the thronged seats and packed
inner-circle,--a breathless, dreadful hush of foreboding. High over the
hushed silence that vibrant cry rang; and Cameron heard it. The voice he
knew. It was young Rob Dunn's, the captain's young brother, whose soul
knew but two passions, one for the captain and one for the half-back of
the Scottish International.

And Cameron responded. The enemy's next high punt found him rock-like
in steadiness. And rock-like he tossed high over his shoulders the
tow-headed Welshman rushing joyously at him, and delivered his ball far
down the line safe into touch. But after his kick he was observed to
limp back into his place. The fierce pace of the Welsh forwards was
drinking the life of the Scottish backline.

An hour; then a half; then another half, without a score. And now the
final quarter was searching, searching the weak spots in their line. The
final quarter it is that finds a man's history and habits; the clean of
blood and of life defy its pitiless probe, but the rotten fibre yields
and snaps. That momentary weakness of Cameron's like a subtle poison
runs through the Scottish line; and like fluid lightning through the
Welsh. It is the touch upon the trembling balance. With cries exultant
with triumph, the Welsh forwards fling themselves upon the steady Scots
now fighting for life rather than for victory. And under their captain's
directions these fierce, victory-sniffing Welsh are delivering their
attack upon the spot where he fancies he has found a yielding. In vain
Cameron rallies his powers; his nerve is failing him, his strength is