The good doctor was ever twitting me on what he was pleased to call my love of dress; but I made him no answer this time, for I was watching Black Hawk, who, with an Indian's cunning, had at once discovered the footprints in the snow and that there was but one pair of them, and was stealing off after them. That would never do.
"Great Chief," I cried, "'tis no use following the Red Dog; he has had too long a start. Will you help us to carry the dog of La Petite to the house, where we can put him in a warm bed? 'Twill never do to let him lie in the snow, and 'twill take us all to carry him comfortably."
Black Hawk hesitated, and then grunted out an unwilling consent. I think it seemed to him somewhat beneath the dignity of a great chief to carry a dog, and only because of his love for La Petite did he bring his mind to it. Nor did my little fiction about the Red Dog deceive him.
"No Red Dog," he grunted. "White Wolf! Trail fresh. Black Hawk bring his scalp to La Petite."
But the doctor saved me the necessity of arguing further with him.
"Red Dog or White Wolf, Black Hawk," he said, "n'importe! 'Tis the mastiff we must look to now. A sad day 'twould be for all of us should he die; so lend a hand, vite, vite!"
And this from the doctor, who had told me when I first met him he would not have cared had I killed Leon, for he loved him not. The truth was that the doctor's devotion to Leon and Leon's to him were second only to the devotion of the dog and his mistress to each other, though, owing to the fact that Leon often stalked into his laboratory at inopportune moments, sometimes spoiling the most delicate experiment by poking his great inquisitive muzzle where it did not belong, the doctor's patience was sometimes tried almost beyond the limit of endurance.
The doctor's exhortation, uttered in a sharp and clipping way peculiar to him when excited, was effectual. Very tenderly between us all we managed to lift the mastiff, and bore him to the negroes' quarters, where, in Narcisse's cabin, we made him a warm bed and washed and dressed his wound, and left him in a fair way to recovery.
I was a little behind the others in reaching the house, for I had delayed about some last arrangements for Leon's comfort, and then it had been necessary that I should make a hasty toilet. Hands and face were soiled with blood and grime (my purple velvets I feared were ruined forever, but I would not take the time to change them), and my hair was in much disorder. A hasty scrubbing of hands and face and a retying of my hair-ribbon to try to confine the rebellious yellow curls that were tumbling all over my head, and that I so much despised, were all I permitted myself time for. Yet the few minutes I had lingered had been long enough for the launching of a thunderbolt, and I arrived just at the moment to see the havoc it had made.
Mademoiselle in her ball-dress had thrown herself on her knees beside madame, her white arms flung around madame's neck, her face buried in her motherly bosom, sobbing piteously. Madame gently stroked the dark curls, saying over and over only the same words, "My child, my child, my poor child!" while the tears flowed down her own cheeks all unnoticed.