them, though some thought it was wrong that Tudor should associate with an infidel woman.

Although Cubak's mind had become easy about the strange doings about him, he was not so happy as when his master had been with him. He resented Tudor now not because he grazed his sheep among the Tatars, not because he associated with a woman so unlike the women in his own village, but because he had taken the place of his master. The two men were so different! Tudor looked upon him as a dog, while Jancu had looked upon him as a friend and companion. Whatever time Tudor had to spare, he devoted to his Risa, while whenever Jancu, his real master, had been with him, he had played and chased around with him, in the adjoining forests and fields, providing frolics and fresh meat.

As they moved on to a new grazingplace one day, for the sheep had eaten up all the grass in the old one, the flock had spread out a little too far. Cubak began to crowd the sheep to gether. The younger ones had spread out into wide circles, bleating loudly as they stumbled over themselves. Nibbling at one of the young lambs, the dog sank his teeth a little too far into the tender bone, and the lamb collapsed, bleeding.

Frightened, Cubak looked at Tudor, who was playfully running away from the pursuing young Tatar girl. The dog knew what would happen to him at the hands of this man whom he disliked, whose love he doubted, and who had hurt him several times. Savagely, without much knowing what he did, he sank his teeth into the throat of the ycung lamb to stop it from bleating. And as the master was some distance from him now, running playfully after

Risa, who had taken his gun away, Cubak carried the quivering body of the still pulsating lamb behind the trees of the forest that adjoined the grazing-ground. From between the trunks he could watch the shepherd, whose back was to the flock, as he talked and played with the girl.

The warm blood of the lamb was coagulating on the lips and feet of the dog. He sank his teeth again into the dying animal as it moved its feeble legs, and tore its windpipe open. Then forgetting himself completely, forgetting the dog blood in him, which had been bred for many generations, the wolf blood in him obliterating all the training and breeding, Cubak buried his head into the still palpitating flesh of the lamb, eating ravenously and forgetting completely all that surrounded him, even to his master. And while he ate ravenously the forbidden flesh, the flock was no longer to him something he was there to guard, but something that was to have fear of him. The flock and the master and the other dogs were against him. And although the scent of the wolf came fresh upon the wind, Cubak felt much nearer to him whose scent he felt than to the people and the flock on the other side of the trees. The savage barking of the other dogs did not arouse him, did not draw him nearer to the flock. It made him want to get away beyond the forest, to the other side.

Tudor, having suddenly noted the dog's disappearance, began to call him. The other dogs barked loudly and circled around their flocks. It was getting dark. Tudor, with Risa near him, searching for Cubak, entered the forest, fearing the dog had tried to outdo himself and the others and had g

to meet the enemy all by himself. But they had not gone far when they discovered Cubak, with his head buried in the quivering flesh he was devouring. His muzzle was red with blood up to his eyes.

At sight of Tudor, Cubak withdrew a few paces and showed his terrible fangs. A second later, however, upon hearing the other dogs bark, all courage left him, and he rolled meekly to the ground, crawling at the feet of his shepherd, moaning as though he wanted to explain himself. Not knowing what to do, Tudor backed out of the forest. The dog followed, crawling low to the ground. The other dogs were still circling widely around the flocks, for the scent of the wolf was becoming stronger and stronger. A moment later a gun was fired in the direction from which appeared a huge brown beast.

The tramp of

a horse was heard, and Jancu appeared from the opposite direction. Cubak left the pack of dogs now running toward the dead wolf and rushed at full speed toward his beloved master. Jancu bent over his

dog to pat him, as was his wont, on the muzzle,

Tudor now approached his master and the dog.

"Come," he said, "and I will show you what this dog of yours has just done."

"Why are his muzzle and his hair red with blood? Has he been in a fight?" Jancu asked wonderingly.

"Come and I will show you," Tudor answered, walking ahead. "If he were my dog, I would shoot him."

Cubak made as if to run away in the other direction when he noticed where Tudor was leading them, but Jancu had already seized him by his collar and half dragged him to the place of his crime. The young master's eyes welled with tears when he saw the half-devoured lamb on the ground. He looked at it and at Cubak, who stood guiltily near him.

There was only one law for dogs

and saw the blood on Cubak's head. It had matted the fur around the eyes and neck.

who happened to forget themselves, but Jancu loved Cubak too much. He was sure that if Cubak could speak, he would be able to explain why it had happened. "Are you sure he did it?" Jancu asked. Tudor ex

plained how he had come upon Cubak.

"His head was burrowed

Jancu pondered a little while. Then he took out the riding-whip he carried in his boot and gave the cringing Cubak, who had backed against the trees, a merciless whipping, while he kept on talking to him and showing him what he had done that deserved such punishment. Thick welts swelled underneath the dog's fur and over his muzzle. The dog howled and cried. Jancu continued plying the whip over his body. When Jancu ceased beating him, the pain burned so that Cubak could hardly move. He understood that he had committed a terrible crime that deserved that beating. He understood that because he knew his master loved him, because of the great confidence he had in his master's wisdom, even though the consequence of that wisdom was the cause of all that pain in his body. Had Tudor beaten him half as severely, the dog would have turned and torn him with his fangs.

And

Having punished his dog, Jancu dragged him by the collar back into the woods. He sent Tudor to bury the remains of the lamb deep in the ground so as not to attract beasts of prey around the grazing-grounds. although Jancu had intended to stay only a little while, he remained there until far into the night, tending to his sick, whining dog, bathing his sores in the little creek near by and talking to him. After recommending several things to Tudor, he jumped on his horse, not without a last friendly glance at his whining dog.

"If the wolf blood rises again in that dog of yours, I shall shoot him on the spot," Tudor said.

"You will do nothing of the kind. I am sure he will never do it again;

but if he does it again, tie him up and send for me."

Cubak wanted to run after Jancu, but the pain in his hind legs was too great.

For several days he limped around. The other shepherds, who had been told of his misdeed, refused to let him come too near them. Even the Tatar dogs, whom he had ignored ever since he had come there, kept away from him, refusing to befriend one who had so miserably betrayed his flock, one who had behaved as a wolf.

As the summer advanced, and the flock had to move farther and farther, Tudor began to leave the grounds at night and steal away to the village in which Risa lived. It was too far for her to come to see him frequently, as he wished. At first it was only in the spirit of fun that Tudor had associated with the little Tatar girl, but as time went on, her hold upon him grew so strong that when she absented herself, he was much more a neglected lover than a vigilant shepherd. The other shepherds, who had noticed Tudor's lovesickness when she was not about, jested about it, saying that miracles had come to pass. First, Jancu had overwhelmed the Tatar village, burned their houses, and subdued the men; then he had made peace with them, arranging that the sheep of the Rumanian side of the Dobrudja graze upon that which was undisputed Tatar land. Following that the Tatar dogs and their own had become friendly, and flocked together against the common enemy, the wolf. And now a Rumanian shepherd was waiting for the moon to rise high enough that he might lean against a fence the other side of which lived a Tatar girl. To all of which Tudor answered that

Tatar girls were quite as worthy of love as Tatar ground was worthy of grazing.

At the end of the grazing season, after the sheep had been brought back to the Rumanian village, Tudor returned to the Tatar village to claim Risa as his wife. But Risa's mother, who was a widow, would give her daughter in marriage only on condition that Tudor remained with them; for the Tatars, having lost many men in battle, were eager to have the man that loved one of their daughters stay with them and thus augment the number of males of their tribe. It was rather difficult for Tudor to do so, for even after his village had made peace with the enemy, they were still enemy, nevertheless. Tudor asked for time to consider. Already the shepherds had told at the inns the tale of his friendship with the little Tatar girl. At the dances on Sunday the Rumanian girls walked away when he invited them for a turn. And Lenca, a girl who before that winter had looked upon him with inviting eyes, now refused even to hold his arm, and broke away from him as the whole village danced the hora, circling, locked arm in arm, around the table upon which sat the lone drunken Gipsy fiddler. So half out of spite, half because he longed for Risa, Tudor departed again for the Tatar's village, leaving his mother and sisters in tears. It was as if they had buried him. And Tudor's old mother, in her anger, said aloud in front of the church for everybody to hear:

"Are we to lose one of our sons every year for the handful of grass our sheep may eat?"

For it was clear to her, as to many others, that a man who went over to the Tatars was that much strength lost to their own village.

Cubak turned around idly in the corrals in which the sheep were kept for the winter. The story of his crime, which was known to everybody, had undermined the confidence in him. He was no longer looked upon as the master's dog. People looked askance at him when he entered their yards, as if he were a dubious friend. Only his master showed him the same unbounded confidence that he had shown before. But his master was now so occupied with other duties, and so frequently away from home, attending to the different business of the whole community, answering complaints, making peace between the peasants when they quarreled, he was seldom free to play with him and show him the attention he craved.

Then as the winter months dragged on, and the cold became more and more severe, the longing for quivering warm flesh of his own kill, the like of which he had tasted the previous summer alone in the forest, came upon Cubak. The memory of the whipping he had received, however, kept him back. He passed over many opportunities to break into the corral of his own master, but he began to roam stealthily at night around the corrals of the other people, watched by their respective dogs. The dogs themselves began to suspect him; they barked at his approach. Late one night, as he was crawling toward the corral of old Marcu, the dogs began to bark as if they had scented a wolf coming upon them; for Cubak, who for weeks and weeks had prowled with bared fangs and raised hind quarters, was now more like a wolf than a dog. Even his scent was as that of the wolf prowling for a kill. His own brothers did not recognize him, and even Roshka, his