mothers with still smaller puppies. They reached a place in the yard
where all of them stopped, and though the man in the fur coat, who
stood a distance back of Brother Antoine and the younger man, called to
them, the dogs only wagged their tails and did not go any closer.

"You will have to come further," said the monk. "The dogs know that they
must not cross to you, for the first thing a puppy learns is to respect
the boundary line."

The fur-coated man moved to where Brother Antoine and the other man
stood, then the dogs grouped about while the monk talked to the
visitors.

"They seem to understand every word you say," the old man spoke. "Their
eyes are so intelligent."

"They are living sermons on obedience, loyalty, and self-sacrifice,"
answered Brother Antoine's gentle voice. "Not one of these dogs would
hesitate to risk his life to save his most bitter enemy. That has been
their heritage for almost a thousand years, now."

"Natural instinct counts for a great deal," the grey-eyed man spoke as
he looked into the upturned faces of the dogs, "but the patient training
you give them has developed it."

"The older dogs help us teach the youngsters," went on the monk, whose
hand rested on Jan's head. "We send out four dogs each morning--two
younger ones and two of the old ones. One pair goes on the trail down
the Italian slope toward Aosta, the other travels the Swiss path leading
to Martigny. None of them turns back until the last cabin of refuge has