Near the river trail she came upon the man, but he paid no heed to her
approach. He sat with his face in his hands and--she could not believe
her eyes and ears--he was sobbing bitterly. For an instant her lips
curled in the smile of scornful triumph and then something like
disgust came over her. There was mockery in her voice as she called
out to him.
"Have you stubbed your toe, little boy?"
He looked up, dazed. Then he arose, turning his back while he dashed
his hand across his eyes. When he glanced back at her he saw that she
was smiling. But she also saw something in his face that drove the
smile away. Absolute rage gleamed in his eyes.
"So it is real war," he said hoarsely, his face quivering. "Your
pitiful cowards want it to be real, do they? Well, that's what it
shall be, hang them! They shall have all they want of it! Look! This
is their way of fighting, is it? Look!"
He pointed to his feet. Her bewildered eyes saw that his hand was
bloody and a deathly sickness came over her. He was pointing to the
outstretched, inanimate form of the dog that had been his friend
and comrade. She knew that the beast was dead and she knew that her
brother's threat had not been an idle one. A great wave of pity and
horror swept over her. Moisture sprang to her eyes on the moment.
"He--he is dead?" she exclaimed.
"Yes--and killed by some cowardly brute whose neck I'd like to wring.
That dog--my Bonaparte--who knew no feud, who did no wrong! Your
brother wants war, does he? Well, I'll give him all--"
"But my brother could not have done a thing like this," she cried,
slipping from her saddle and advancing toward him quickly.
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