gs met in the red centre of his enemy's throat. There was a
faint grunt, a final spasm of muscular activity, and then Finn drew
back, and shook his dripping muzzle in the air. The fierce lord of
Mount Desolation had entered upon the long sleep; his lordship was
ended.

Finn sank back upon his haunches, gasping, with a length of
scarlet, foam-streaked tongue dangling from one side of his jaws.
The watching line of dingoes advanced two paces. Warrigal, stepping
forward to her mate's side, snarled warningly. But Finn pushed her
gently with his lacerated muzzle, and, turning then to the watchful
dingoes below, he emitted a little whinnying sound which said
plainly: "You are welcome here!" Acting upon this, Black-tip moved
slowly, deferentially forward, and climbed the flat ledge of rock,
his bushy tail respectfully curled between his legs. Long and
thoroughly he sniffed at the dead body of the terrible Lupus, and
then he looked round at his still waiting companions, and whined as
he walked back toward them. In twos and threes the dingoes followed
Black-tip's lead, and climbed the flat rock to sniff their dead
tyrant, and satisfy themselves that he had indeed entered upon the
long sleep. And the gesture in Finn's direction, with which they
turned away from the rock, was as near to being a salutation, an
obeisance, as anything that mortal dingo has ever achieved. And
when the last of the band, reinforced now by half a dozen others
who had been hastily summoned from their hunting near by, had paid
his visit of inspection, Finn did a curious thing, which probably
no dingo would ever have done. He moved slowly forward on his
aching limbs, gripped the dead body firmly by the neck, and heaved
it down from the flat rock to the trail below. Then he barked
aloud, a message which said plainly--

"Here is your old lord and tyrant! Take him away, and leave me
now!"

Black-tip and half a dozen of his comrades seized upon the carcase
of the tyrant and dragged it away down the trail. I cannot say what
was done with the remains of Lupus, the terrible son of Tasman; but
Finn and Warrigal saw them no more, and for three days after that
night of the slaying of Lupus, the bush-folk saw nothing of the
Wolfhound. They saw Warrigal hunt alone each evening and, doubtless
with thoughts of Finn in their minds, they respected her trail, and
sought no speech of her, tempting though the sight of the Mount
Desolation belle was to the young bucks of