seized him by the throat, and the master killed
him. This beginning did not encourage the rest:
they took to flight. Dyharam, whose life had
been saved by the bravery even more than by
the vigilance of Bheirou, manifested his gratitude
by all sorts of caresses; and considering
the debt to be paid with interest, he tried to
make the good creature understand that he was
no longer a hostage, but free to rejoin his master.
Bheirou—and this is the wonderful part of
the story—shook his head mournfully, to indicate
that a mere verbal order like this, given to
him alone, would not excuse him in Dabi's eyes.
But at last Dyharam succeeded in persuading
him; and after taking an affectionate leave, he
made him set off in the direction by which Dabi
ought to return.

Now Dabi, whose affairs had detained him
beyond the appointed term, was collecting the
money to discharge the debt, at a few leagues'
distance from his creditor's house. All at once,
perceiving Bheirou running to meet him,
unattended, he turned pale, believing that the dog
had stolen away from Dhyaram's custody,
thereby compromising his word of honour. In
a fit of rage, heedless of the dog's caresses, he
drew his sabre and killed him on the spot.

A few minutes afterwards, to his bitter grief,
he found tied to Bheirou's neck a quittance for
the thousand rupees signed by the merchant,
together with a letter relating the dog's
exploits. Inconsolable for his fatal error, Dabi
devoted the money to the erection of a
monument on the spot where the bloody deed
occurred. The people of the neighbourhood
still point out this monument to travellers,
which is known by the name of Koukarry–
Gaou. They also believe that earth taken from
Bheirou's grave is a sovereign remedy for the
bite of mad dogs.

Our second dog had his troubles too, but of
a less tragic kind. He was a spaniel, and his
name was Cabriole. His master, the Comte de
Brevonne's chef, or man-cook, had brought him
up from a puppy, paying particular attention to
his fetching and carrying. Cabriole would
catch a half-franc piece in the air, and take
it to the person named to him, often residing
at a considerable distance. When an errand
had to be done, he took the basket in his
mouth, and went for tobacco, coffee, sugar,
cheese, or any other article of daily use which
happened to be required in an emergency.
Why send a dog, and not a servant? For
this good reason. The comte's château is five
miles distant from Langres, the nearest market–
town. A servant would take three hours to go
there and back and make his purchases; the
dog, when encouraged to exert himself, did it
in three-quarters of an hour. The dog knew
all the tradesmen; a card in the basket mentioned
what was wanted; and one tradesman
sent him on to the next.

One Friday, more unlucky than the rest of
Fridays, four persons called at the château. They
were asked to stop and dine; the invitation was
accepted, and the cook was ordered to prepare a
suitable meagre dinner. It was four in the afternoon,
and the unfortunate chef had nothing, absolutely
nothing, except kidney beans and lentils.
How could he compose a "suitable"
dinner with that? His hair almost lifted his
cap from his head. "If I had only a little fish!"
he groaned, banging his saucepans about in despair.
"But I haven't so much as a red-herring.
Here, Cabriole; you must help me out of this
mess." Cabriole took the basket and his orders,
and darted away from the château like an arrow.
In twenty minutes he reached the town. The
fishwoman to whom he proudly presented himself,
glanced at the card, and took six handsome
eels out of a tub of water. That the cook
might have no doubt of their freshness, she
refrained from killing them, merely tying them in
a napkin, and putting them into the basket
strong and alive. Cabriole thanked her with a
thoughtless wag of his tail, and immediately set
off on his way back home.

Poor innocent dog! He thought that his
charge would be as easy to carry as a pound of
coffee. For a while, the eels lay quiet enough;
but having their doubts, perhaps, respecting
the object of their journey, their heads
were soon peeping out of the basket. Cabriole
perceived it. Surprised, but not intimidated,
he growled and snarled and shook the
basket, to make them keep still. The move
succeeded; but before long the eels again felt
a wish to look about them. This time he set
the basket down, and drove them back into it
with strokes of his paw. Once more they lay
quiet for a minute or two, allowing him to
proceed on his journey homewards. But eels are
as restless as they are slippery. Not content
with looking out, they crawled out, and were
making their escape. Cabriole, in a rage, set the
basket down, picked them up one by one, and
returned them to the basket. As fast as he did
so, out they crept again; until, losing patience,
he killed them, each and several, by a sharp
bite applied to the nape of the neck. He
then put them into the basket, and set off for
the château at railway speed.

But all this required time. The cook, getting
fidgety, had sent forward one of his
assistants to see what was the cause of the delay;
and to this witness we are indebted for the
correct knowledge of what occurred. Cabriole
was duly praised and petted; but from that
day forth he loathed the sight of fish. If the
word "eel" were pronounced in his presence, he
ran away and hid himself for two or three days.

Our third canine friend was a military dog.
During the First French Empire, every regiment
had its dog, whose intelligence, thanks
to the soldiers' care, was improved by education
and discipline. The Grand Army's dogs
were picked up almost everywhere, except in
England. They had been recruited in Poland,
in Prussia, in Holland, in Saxony, and in
Flanders. They were mongrel mastiffs, hounds,
Danish dogs, spaniels. But no matter whence
they came, they soon turned French. Foreign
dogs were naturalised without knowing it.

Rugen is an island in the Baltic Sea, opposite
to Stralsund, on the coast of Pomerania.