“And Alphonse!”
Poor Alphonse. He had given his life for his mistress. He was crushed under his enemy. They got him free tenderly, but it was hopeless. There was no more wagging of the responsive tail, no cheery bark, no joyful gambolling life in the kindly dog. Evangeline patted him, the tears running down her cheeks.
“He died a hero’s death,” said Gabriel, gravely. “We will carry him back down the trail and see that he is given fit burial.”
“But you, your arm, Gabriel,” asked Evangeline suddenly. “It is wounded.”
“Nothing much, a scratch. My mother will dress it as soon as we reach home.”
But the girls would not have that, and bound the wound up as well as might be with Evangeline’s kerchief. While they were at this work an odd whining made itself noticeable.
“Oh, look,” whispered Ruth. “It’s the cub.”
And so it was, for the little creature had slowly drawn nearer to its dead mother, and now was nosing over her, whining in a surprised, pained manner, and pawing at her with its small feet. Reaching the bleeding wound in her throat it stopped suddenly, lifted its head high in the air, and began crying.
“Poor little beast,” said Rose. “Let’s take it back with us, Gabriel. It will make a nice pet.”
Gabriel took off his leather belt and fastened it around the cub’s neck, handing the other end of the strap to Rose and Ruth. He and Evangeline then took up the dead Alphonse between them, and the cavalcade set off down the path, slowly enough. It was difficult work, but at last, with many rests, and some frantic demonstrations from the terrified cub, they got back to the spot where Farmer Bellefontaine had left them early that afternoon. It seemed an hundred years ago!