mouse-hole with a Carlist cat waiting round the corner to cut them off.
Neither did the Carlists hazard themselves through the narrow defile
where the Wolf rushed down its straightened gate; for there were forty
thousand men in Pampeluna, only ten miles away.

Which reasons were sound enough to dictate caution in any written word
that might pass from the Count in Saragossa to his son at Torre Garda.

A white dog with one yellow and black ear--a dog that might have been a
nightmare, a bad, distorted dream of a pointer--stood in front of Marcos
de Sarrion as he read the letter and seemed to await the hearing of its
contents.

There are many persons of doubtful social standing, who seek to make
up--to bridge that narrow and unfathomable gulf--by affability. This dog
it seemed, knowing that he was not quite a pointer, sought to conciliate
humanity by an eagerness, by a pathetic and blundering haste to try and
understand what was expected of him and to perform the same without
delay, which was quite foreign to the nature of the real breed.

In Spain one addresses a man by the plain term: Man. And after all, it is
something--deja quelque chose--to be worthy of that name. This dog was
called Perro, which being translated is Dog. He had been a waif in his
early days, some stray from the mountains near the frontier, where dogs
are trained to smuggle. Full of zeal, he had probably smuggled too
eagerly. Marcos had found him, half starved, far up the valley of the
Wolf. He had not been deemed worthy of a baptismal name and had been
called the Dog--and admitted as such to the outbuildings of Torre Garda.
From thence he had worked his humble way upwards. By patience and comfort
his mind slowly expanded until men almost forgot that this was a