There was no human being to whom he could communicate his thoughts, yet the pent-up anguish must find outlet somehow, lest the heart-strings should snap beneath the strain.  It was therefore to his sheepdog, Rover, that he unburdened his mind, as the dog lay with its paws across his knees in the heather, looking up to its master’s face.  “Snakes, Rover, doesta see t’ snakes,” he would mutter, as his eye caught the serpent-like advance of the walls.  The dog seemed to catch his meaning, and responded with a low growl of sympathy.  “Aye, they’re snakes,” the old man went on, “crawlin’s up t’ fell-side on their bellies an’ lickin’ up t’ dust.  They’ve gotten their fangs into my heart, Rover, and seean they’ll be coilin’ thersels about my body.  I niver thowt to see t’ snakes clim’ t’ moors; they sud hae bided i’ t’ dale and left t’ owd shipperd to dee in peace.”

When clipping-time came the walls had almost reached the level of the shepherd’s cottage.  It was the farmers’ custom to pay Peregrine a visit at this time and receive at his hands the sheep that were to be driven down to the valley to be clipped and earmarked.  But this year not a single one appeared.  Shame held them back, and they sent their hinds instead.  These knew well what was passing in the shepherd s mind, but they stood in too much awe of him to broach the subject; and he, on his side, was too proud to confide his grievance to irresponsible farm servants.  But if nothing was said the dark circles round Peregrine’s eyes and the occasional trembling of his hand betrayed to the men his sleepless nights and the palsied fear that infected his heart.

At times, too, though he did his utmost to avoid them, the shepherd would come upon the bands of wallers engaged in their sinister task.  These were strangers to the dale and less reticent than the men from the farms.

“Good-mornin’, shipperd.  Thou’ll be noan sae pleased to set een on us wallers, I reckon,” one of them would say.

“Good-mornin’,” Peregrine would reply.  “I weant say that I’s fain to see you, but I’ve no call to threap wi’ waller-lads.  Ye can gan back to them that sent you and axe ’em why they’ve nivver set foot on t’ moor this yeer.”

“Mebbe they’re thrang wi’ their beasts and have no time to look after t’ yowes.”

“Thrang wi’ beasts, is it?  Nay, they’re thrang wi’ t’ devil, and are flaid to look an honest man i’ t’ face.”

The old man’s words, and still more the lines of anguish that seamed his weather-beaten face, touched them to the quick.  But what could they do?  They were day-labourers, with wives and children dependent on the work of their hands.  Walling meant tenpence a day and regular work for at least six months, and the choice lay between that and the dreaded “Bastile,” as Yorkshiremen in the years that succeeded the French Revolution had learnt to call the workhouse.