It was Franco, true enough. He came swiftly along, leaping and staggering through the deep snow; and he seemed delighted to have found Jonas and his party at last. Jonas patted his head. Both Jonas and Franco were overjoyed to see each other.
Jonas patted Franco's head and praised him, while the dog wagged his tail, whisked about, and shook the snow off from his back and sides.
"What dog is that?" said the woman.
"This is Franco," said Jonas. "Franco Ney is his name. Now we shall have no trouble in getting out."
Franco turned off, short, from the road in which Jonas was going. He knew by instinct which way the shore lay from them. Jonas at first hesitated about following him.
"That can't be the way, Franco," said he.
But Franco, after plunging on a few steps, looked round and whined. Then he came back towards Jonas again a few steps, looking him full in the face, and then whisked about again, and went on farther than before,—and then stopped and looked back, as if to see whether Jonas was going to follow him. Jonas stood just in advance of the oxen, hesitating.
"That must be the way," said Jonas. "Franco knows."
"No, that isn't the way," said the woman; "the dog don't know any thing about it. We must go straight forward."