Near the door sits an impressive looking man.
“It is growing dark, mademoiselle; just turn up the light.”
The interior is flooded with light at this command.
In a far corner lies a spaniel, gazing with pain-stricken eyes at the man. He is too worn in spirit to do more than give a feeble move, now and then, to first one ear and then another. But worn and spent as he is, his eyes are alert for movement on the part of the man, and as the man rises from his chair, the dog utters a faint cry of fear and begins to shake; but his trembling gradually ceases as the man goes in the opposite direction, and he closes his eyes in complete weariness.
Each moment has seemed hours to him, for fear has dragged at his soul.
What new torture awaited him when that huge form moved—to what unknown horror was he to be compelled to submit?
Helpless—chained—and too weak to fight, he was at the mercy of THAT, which sat in front of him.
It looked like his beloved master in form, but the voice was different and the touch——
At the thought of the hand which had caressed him only two days, or was it two years ago, he gave a little whimper, which was quickly stifled as he recalled that the slightest move on his part brought that which gave him only misery—pulling, testing, delicate nerves pressed, and pain indescribable.
Silence reigns, and at last, worn out, he closes his eyes and sleeps.
Once more he is in a room where sparkles a glowing fire, and, with ears alert, listens for a well-known step. Joy permeates him as it comes nearer and nearer, and then the door opens.
With a waving of banner and joyous greeting he leaps to meet a caress and welcome:
“Well, old boy! Glad to see me? Bring me my slippers. There’s a good fellow.”
The joy of taking some part of that dear one close to him and carrying it where he knew it belonged! The excitement of returning and hearing “Right you are, old boy! now the other,” and then the delicious sense of work well done and the praise earned, and the happiness and joy of the hand on his head, while both relaxed to the warmth of the fire.
A sudden pang of pain rouses him, and the remembrance is shattered and dismay takes its place.
What has happened? All he can recall is standing on the doorstep, waiting for that promised walk, and suddenly a jerk, and he is flying through the air and is thrust into a black and yelling mass of his brothers.
Then a brilliantly lighted place and a gruff voice, which says:
“That’s the one. He’s a thoroughbred. Bring him.”
Running, darting this way, that way, snapping at his brothers who bar his escape, he dashes here, there, everywhere, looking in vain for an outlet, only to be cornered at last, with the same kind of a jerk which had torn him away from his doorstep.
“Put up a fight, didn’t he? The experiment will be all the more interesting now, for the nerves are excited.”
Then, straps and buckles which held him down, and cruel wires which prevented his breathing, and then THAT which was at the back of the room, standing over him with shining things, and then such pain as made him forget all things as he sank down—and down—and down!
With a start, he realizes there has been a movement in the room, and a shadow looms toward him. In vain to shrink—to avoid that hand which will soon be upon him, for he is chained and unable to move.
What new terror awaits him?
His heart beats to suffocation and his eyes seek dumbly for aid.
Nearer and nearer comes the shadow, and he abandons all hope, and with a cry of despair his body relaxes, as a figure looms over him.
Again the firelit room and a loved voice:
“Come, boy! Let’s to bed and sleep.”
With a mighty struggle he forces the spirit to rise, and once more opens his eyes, to find the fire light vanished and the loved voice silent—only a looming doom with shining things over him, and a voice, angry with thwarted ambition.
“Too late! He’s dead.”
But a spark of the spirit still lingers in the body, and the faithful eyes see a firelit room and a beloved form, and with a farewell wave of his banner, obeys the command:
“Let’s sleep!”
Worn and weary, a man enters a room where a fire burns upon the hearth.
Throwing himself into a chair, he glances at the vacant rug at his feet, and, with a sob in his voice, says:
“Old Boy! No slippers for me tonight by my old faithful.”
No sound breaks the stillness, and he gazes forelornly towards his room.
Then he sits erect—rigid, for through the door comes a dearly loved figure, head high and banner waving in anticipation of “Well done, good and faithful servant,” and love shining in his eyes, and in his mouth—a slipper!
With suspended breath the man watches, and even at the touch of cold nose upon his hand, remains rigid. Then, with a cry, he throws out his arms to encircle his comrade—only empty air greets him.
But at his feet lies—a slipper!
In stupefaction he looks at it, and then around the room.
Nothing!
Nothing? No! surely something is still in the familiar place—something which is faithful always and remains where love keeps the place!
A light of understanding breaks over the man’s face as he takes the slipper.
“Oh! ye of little faith!”