Poor boy Bounce lived, and began cooking again, though in this matter, unfortunately, his labour was not now very arduous.
Claude was looking very pallid and worn; he did not speak much, he suffered in silence. The men would have fain had their captain to live better than they did, but he would not hear of such a thing. Besides, he gave away a goodly portion of his meagre allowance to poor Fingal.
For Fingal was ill.
Indeed, Claude knew that Fingal was dying, and the faithful old fellow appeared to know it himself. One day the hound was very much weaker, very much worse, and Claude knew the end was very near. He was sitting by the couch on which the dog lay. Alba, the snow-bird, jealous perhaps of her master’s attentions to Fingal, came and perched upon his shoulder.
Claude took the bird in his hands and slowly rose to his feet.
“For once, Alba,” he said, “I must send you off.” Then he handed her to one of the men. “Take her to the aviary.”
This was all he said. But he went back and knelt by Fingal’s bed.
Why did he put the bird away? Those of my readers who love dogs will understand and appreciate his reasons: there was always a slight rivalry between the bird and the dog, and Claude would have grieved to let Fingal in his last moments feel that aught stood between his master’s heart and his.
As Claude returned, Fingal recognised him. He attempted to rise, tried even to crawl towards him, and in doing so fell. Claude raised him—how light he was!—and replaced him in the softest part of his couch. Then he sat beside his dying favourite with one arm over his shoulder.
Fingal knew he was there. He fell quietly and gently asleep.