I thought, too, of the poor traveller who had lost his way, and
found his strength failing. I imagined his joy at the sight of one
of these dogs with a cloak on his back, and a bottle of cordial tied
to his neck.

I saw, in my mind, the good "fellow-creature" showing the way to the
shelter which his truly Christian masters are so glad to afford.

These monks, it is said, keep a bell ringing during storms. It seems
to me I can see one of the old monks sitting over his fire, putting
on more wood, and making his tight chalet as warm as he can, in case
a traveller should come.

Presently he hears a cheerful bark from one of the dogs. He opens
his door; the poor, frozen, half-starved traveller enters.

The monk takes off the wet garments; he rubs the stiff, cold hands;
he speaks kind words to the stranger, and gives him something warm
to drink.

Meanwhile, the good dog lies down on the floor, looking with his
big, kind eyes at the wayfarer, and seems to say, "I'm glad I found
you and brought you here to my master. Eat and drink, and be
comfortable; don't be shy; there's enough here always for a poor
traveller."

It is a sad thing to turn from this pleasant picture to the history
of the bloodhounds in the West Indies. Who would believe that the
good and great Columbus employed bloodhounds to destroy the Indians
who made war against the Spaniards?