Something was compelling him, and he would go in.

Slowly the gloom engulfed him, and once again the whimsical spirit of fatalism had chosen a trivial thing to work out its ends in the romance and tragedy of human lives.
Grim shadows began to surround Peter, and his ears shot up, and a scraggly brush stood out along his spine.

But he did not bark, as he had barked along the shore of the lake, and in the green opens.

Twice he looked back to the shimmer of sunshine that was growing more and more indistinct.

As long as he could see this, and knew that his retreat was open, there still remained a bit of that courage which was swiftly ebbing in the thickening darkness.