Y

EAR after year the Tatars of Silistria had crossed the little forest that stood between their village and the Dobrudjan pasturefields of the Rumanian shepherds and stolen their sheep. Like wolves, they fattened themselves on meat they killed that did not belong to them.

The Tatars and the wolves were the most dangerous enemies of the flocks. Against the wolves the shepherds had trained their ogars, dogs bred out of mother wolves; but against the black Tatars they had had little, if any, defense, until Corbu, Jancu Corbu, son of one-eyed Bujor Corbu, had gone out and given them battle.

Jancu, who had been on his way home with his flock, was attacked by the thieves. On recovering from the bullet-wound in his arm, he organized the youth of the village, and placing himself at their head, although only eighteen years old, he invaded, gave battle, and crushed the "thieves' village" across the border.

After Bujor's son had vanquished the cattle-thieves, the people of his own village were so impressed by his strength and ability that they began

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to look toward him for help in every trouble that befell them. If there was a disease among the cattle, they were sure that Jancu would know how to rid them of it. When they thought themselves overtaxed, they would send him to the seat of the Rumanian Government to obtain an amelioration of their conditions. At the wolfhunts, early in the winter, through the dense forests, they wanted Jancu at the head, and as they were no more molested by the Tatars, and after Jancu had succeeded in almost everything he had undertaken to do for them, the people of Cerna grew wealthier, their flocks increased, and in a few years the plains and hills and marshes of the neighborhood upon which grazed their cattle, their sheep, had become too limited to feed them. The shepherds had to look for other grazing-grounds away from their old settlement. Indeed, two years after Jancu had conquered the Tatar village, a pact with the former enemies was arrived at, so that the sheep of Cerna could pass the border and graze on the other side, the Tatars being only too ready to get the small pay

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ment in sheep from the Rumanian shepherds, to rebuild their homes and restock their flocks.

Then one day, late in the winter, the old starost, the mayor of Cerna, died, and the people unanimously elected Jancu in his place.

Throughout all the ceremony Jancu sat quietly near his sweetheart, smiling abstractedly, stroking the long and heavy fur of his dog Cubak, who lay at his feet. Cubak looked up at his master. He understood that something very important was happening. Every time his master's name was mentioned, he emitted a little bark, raising his muzzle and turning round and round with joy or defiance; for in the measure his master was happy, Cubak was.

The following spring Cubak was sent over the border to guard the largest flock of sheep he had yet had in charge. He trotted proudly behind them, filled with the pride of well fed strength. His master was not with him. Jancu had to remain in the village to attend to more important business than sheep-raising; and in his stead another man was sent as shepherd, Tudor, son of Jancu's father's best friend.

On the road to the grazing-grounds, edging the Tatar settlement, Cubak, the dog who had been taught and who had learned to guard his flock as much against Tatars as against wolves, was greatly surprised to see Tudor lead his sheep in the direction of the enemy. He bore down with all his weight upon the shepherd in an attempt to throw him, and by himself tried to turn the scattering flock homeward. The young shepherd, not understanding the dog's actions, raised his stick and hit Cubak a solid blow on the head. Confused by

what was happening, and which he did not understand, Cubak marched alongside the herd, keeping the young shepherd constantly in sight, surveying him. If Tudor had ever entertained the thought that Cubak might look upon him as his master, that day taught him differently. When they entered the muddy road lined by the first huts of the Tatar settlements, Cubak became so upset he began to turn widely around the whole flock, nibbling at the legs of the sheep the better to keep them in a compact

mass.

For generations and generations his kind had been taught by their masters that the Tatars were their enemies, that the Tatar scent was as dangerous as that of the wolf. And now, suddenly, the Tatars were allowed to come near and talk to the shepherd as they stroked the wool of the lambs with their dark hands. And he, Cubak, was kept away by the shepherd with the long stick. The very same men who had wounded him and his master, and whom his master had fought with to take the sheep back from them, he now was told to let go before sinking his fangs into them. It dawned upon the dog that Tudor was betraying his beloved master, and committing a crime against the flock, the holy flock.

A little later that day, having passed through several friendly Tatar settlements, greeted by the men and hailed by the gaily trousered women, the flock of pure white sheep, now muddy to the belly, arrived at the new grazing-grounds. There were other flocks, some of them shepherded by Tatars, and others by people of Cubak's own village, who had arrived there before; for Jancu had been late that year

because of his numerous other duties. Some of them were there when Jancu's flock arrived, and others came a few hours later. Cubak could not sleep the whole night. The other dogs were also demoralized. Yet each one had his accustomed master, not like Cubak. He was apprehensive of what was going to happen, something the nature of which he could not understand or foresee. He could not condone or understand the friendliness between the Tatar and the Rumanian shepherd.

But the days passed on. Nothing untoward happened. The Tatars came and went and did not destroy any of the sheep, and the Tatar's dogs guarded their flocks as zealously as Cubak guarded his. There were sev

eral bitter fights between the Rumanian dogs, headed by Cubak, and the Tatar dogs. Tudor and his friends always came to the defense of the others. Peace was established between them only when the scent of a wolf was felt. Cubak was the first to signal it. The Tatar dogs united with him to rout the common enemy.

Cubak's uneasiness ceased only when Jancu, accompanied by his bride, on horseback, arrived on the fifth morning after his stay on the grazing-field.

"That dog of yours," said Tudor to Jancu, "acts as if he were mad," and he told the story of how Cubak had borne down upon him and how he had refused to go in the direction pointed

out to him. Jancu looked at the huge, whining animal cringing at his feet. And as he looked into his perplexed eyes, he understood quite plainly the reason back of his dog's behavior.

"He will be much better from now on," Jancu said as he shook both Tudor's hands and hugged them. Instantly, the dog, who until then had been morose, began to romp around and emit short little barks of joy, trying to show friendliness toward Tudor. A little later Jancu shook hands with one of the Tatars, and even whistled in a friendly way to one of the Tatar dogs guarding a flock near by. He wanted his dog to understand that even the worst enemy may not be an enemy forever. Cubak, however, also deducted that the best friend may not remain so forever.

That night, when the scent of the wolf brought by the wind bit Cubak's nostrils, he was not so anxious to tear the common enemy to pieces; for in his mind there dawned slowly the possibility of his master making friends even with the wolf, who was, after all, only one of the common enemy. Still, he barked loudly, and the other dogs answered, keeping up the whole night the warning to the wolf that they were aware of his presence in the neighborhood.

As the shepherds were too far away from home, they brought their food from the adjoining Tatar village. Only once every few weeks a boy on horseback would bring them some fresh cheese and freshly milled cornmeal. The rest of the food the shepherds bought from the Tatars.

Tudor, who was the youngest of the shepherds, was the one most frequently sent by them to the Tatar village to buy strips of dry meat for

the dogs and whatever else was needed in the camp. With that ease and ingenuity of youth, after he had made several trips to the village, he became acquainted with a young Tatar girl. Risa was her name. She was so very different from the girls of his own village! She was short and plump, and the gay pantaloons and the red burnoose she wore were so fetching! From almost a bullet-shaped head shone two black eyes deeply set in their sockets. His hand met hers as he tried to help her carry the water-pail. Their lips parted and smiled at what one said to the other, though neither understood, and they walked near each other when Tudor left the village for his camp. The Tatar girl was proud of that friendship, for she had heard that among the settlements in the neighborhood there had arisen a new voevod in the Dobrudja. That man was Tudor's master, who, after having vanquished the Tatars of the neighborhood, was now making friendship with them. And that though this new master was a giaour, an unbeliever, it was known he was kind to the people he had vanquished; he paid them for the grazing-ground, and did not slay them. And Tudor was that voevod's friend.

And so after a little while Risa took to visiting Tudor on the grazinggrounds. At night they would sit close to each other on the little mound under which Tudor had scooped his sleeping-quarters. Alternately, he would play the Rumanian shepherd songs on his reed flute, and she would sing her Tatar songs and beat the accompaniment on the little dull drum she carried with her wherever she went. And the other shepherds came around, and they all laughed with