"I was born in Switzerland," he said, "high amongst the mountains, where the snow falls for weeks at a time, and sometimes buries whole families beneath it. The monks of St. Bernard had trained my father, with many other dogs of the same kind, to rescue travellers who lost their way in trying to cross the mountains, and, but for an accident, that would have been my work too. My father loved the life, and I should have been as proud as he to share its dangers."
"Won't you tell me about it?" Jim asked coaxingly. "I want to hear about Jean-Pierre, and why you say he was so 'splendid.' Did he wear a beautiful shining sword, like Uncle Mark does? And could he fight?"
"Jean-Pierre had never seen a sword," the Viking said, "and though he could fight well, it wasn't with enemies that you could see, but with Hunger, and Fear, and Cold. But if I am to tell you what I know about him, I must begin at the beginning."
"Twelve years ago I was one of a littler of sprawling puppies. My mother declared that we were the handsomest she had ever had, but my father said that size had nothing do with pluck, and that it was only pluck that counted."
"How we puppies longed to be grown up, so that we too might show that we were brave, and how we loved to see our father and his companions start off in search of some lost traveller. The monks would fasten flasks of brandy round their necks, and rugs and blankets on their backs, and wish them 'Godspeed' solemnly. 'Mon Brave' they used to call our father, and we often heard them speaking to visitors of his wonderful sense of smell, and how he would dig out lost people from the deepest snowdrift."
"One afternoon we learnt that two children were missing. They had no mother, and their father, who had gone to a neighbouring village to lay in food for the winter, had been cut off from them by the snow. The storm had come before it was expected, and for days he had not been able to reach his cottage. When he did, he found it empty. Pinned to the table was a letter from the boy, who had been left in charge of Rose Marie, his little sister. 'The Fairy of the Mountains' people called her, because she was so very fair, and the boy—it was Jean-Pierre—loved her more even than his father."
"The letter had been written the night before, and said that he and Marie had been without food for three days then, and when morning came were going to try 'the lower pass' in hopes of reaching the Monastery. 'I shall take care of Rose Marie,' he added, 'and keep the cold from her.'"
"That day the snow had fallen more heavily than ever and the monks shook their heads as they looked at the sky. 'Do your best, Mon Brave,' they said to our father, and sent him off in advance of the other dogs."
"It was almost the coldest night we had ever known, even in the Monastery; we puppies snuggled ourselves together beneath the straw, and shuddered as we listened to the stories our mother told us of dogs and travellers who had been buried under masses of fallen snow."