But Cartouche?
He had been a little behind his master; a bough had struck him down as it swept round, a fierce current drew him under, a moment did it all. The faithfulness which never once had failed him, had not failed him now; Jack was safe, but Cartouche had died in the saving.
Chapter Twenty Six.
Only a Dog.
Only a dog. Other people said this afterwards, but not one of those who stood by the river, looking sadly where he had been carried away. Only a dog, indeed, and yet without his aid three of their number might never have been given back to those who loved them. Down Phillis’s face the tears were raining.
“Is it hopeless?” she said.
“Quite hopeless,” Jack replied in a dull and shaken voice. “I would give—well it’s no use talking about what I would give—”
And then they turned away. It was indeed necessary that the two men, in their chilled and dripping state, should get home as quickly as possible. And what of the little waif whose rescue had cost them so much? Phillis stooped down, and lifted her from the cradle which had been an ark, and in which she was sleeping as soundly as on her mother’s breast.