These monks, it is said, keep a bell ringing during storms. It seems to me I can see one of the old monks sitting over his fire, putting on more wood, and making his tight chalet as warm as he can, in case a traveller should come.
Presently he hears a cheerful bark from one of the dogs. He opens his door; the poor, frozen, half-starved traveller enters.
The monk takes off the wet garments; he rubs the stiff, cold hands; he speaks kind words to the stranger, and gives him something warm to drink.
Meanwhile, the good dog lies down on the floor, looking with his big, kind eyes at the wayfarer, and seems to say, "I'm glad I found you and brought you here to my master. Eat and drink, and be comfortable; don't be shy; there's enough here always for a poor traveller."
It is a sad thing to turn from this pleasant picture to the history of the bloodhounds in the West Indies. Who would believe that the good and great Columbus employed bloodhounds to destroy the Indians who made war against the Spaniards?
"When the Indians were conquered, the bloodhounds were turned into the woods and became wild, so that there are now many of these wild dogs on the islands. I grieve to say that, here in this civilized land, bloodhounds are sometimes used to catch runaway slaves."
"Runaway slaves, Mother? Do you mean men, like Anthony Burns," asked Frank. "He was a slave, was he not?"
"Yes, Frank, men like Anthony Burns, when they try to get their freedom, if they are known to be hiding in a wood, are often hunted with dogs."
"O, it is very wicked, Mother!"
"So I think, Frank; let us hope that the time will come when every man and woman and child in our land will think so, and then there will be no more slaves."