The broker stooped and patted the dumb brute affectionately. "I understand, Lion," he said. "Yes, I understand you."
The dog looked lovingly up into his master's face, and whined for joy.
CHAPTER VIII.
This incident, trifling as it was, I think, did more than anything which had preceded it to make me aware of the nature of that which had befallen me. The live brute could still communicate with the living man. Skill of scientist and philosopher was as naught to help the human spirit which had fled the body to make itself understood by one which occupied it still. More blessed in that moment was Lion, the dog, than Esmerald Thorne, the dead man. I said to myself:—
"I am a desolate and an outcast creature. I am become a dumb thing in a deaf world."
I thrust my hands before me, and wrung them with a groan. It seemed incredible to me that I could die; that was more wonderful, even, than to know that I was already dead.
"It is all over," I moaned. "I have died. I am dead. I am what they call a dead man."
Now, at this instant, the dog turned his head. No human tympanum in the room vibrated to my cry. No human retina was recipient of my anguish. What fine, unclassified senses had the highly-organized animal by which he should become aware of me? The dog turned his noble head—he was a St. Bernard, with the moral qualities of the breed well marked upon his physiognomy; he lifted his eyes and solemnly regarded me.
After a moment's pause he gave vent to a long and mournful cry.