Desdemona hurried back to her young. With a fine effort of will she
ignored the two corpses and settled herself down, as though thoroughly
at ease in mind and body, to the task of suckling her three remaining
youngsters. It is worth noting that, whereas a tithe of the strain and
shock she had sustained during the past hour would have made worse than
useless the ministrations of a human nursing mother, there was no fault
in the quality of this particular meal taken by the puppies, nor any
momentary imperfection about the manner in which it was made available
to them, or the way in which they were washed and groomed after it, and
disposed for their nap.

That Desdemona was none the less acutely conscious of her bereavement is
proved by the fact that, so soon as her three full-fed pups were asleep,
she rose very deftly and carefully, and drew out to the mouth of the
cave the body of the puppy at whose throat she had found the stoat.
Depositing the limp little body upon the chalky ledge before the cave,
Desdemona regarded it mournfully, sitting on her haunches the while, her
muzzle pointing earthward, her splendid brow deeply wrinkled--a true
bloodhound.

After a few minutes given to sad contemplation she went inside again,
and carried out the other little corpse, laying it near by its fellow
and nosing it sadly, till the two were touching. There was another
interval of melancholy contemplation. And then, suddenly lifting her
muzzle heavenward, so that its deep flews swayed in the breeze,
Desdemona broke into vocal mourning, in a long, deep, baying howl; a
less eerie sound, perhaps, than the siren-like howl of an Irish
wolfhound in distress, yet withal, in its different, deeper, more
resonant way, a cry quite equally impressive.