epositing 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.

It was at this employ that Finn found his mate when he arrived at the
cave that morning from Nuthill. For some moments Finn also gazed down at
the victims, pondering over their immobility and his mate's mournful
cries. Then, very tenderly at first, he nuzzled the dead puppies. That
process flashed a picture into his mind, and he saw again Warrigal's
dead children in the Mount Desolation cave. So he understood. His head
moved now far more vigorously, almost roughly, indeed, as he pushed the
little bodies forward with his nose, thrusting them out upon the turf,
so that they rolled, one over the other, down the steep part of the
slope.

Then Finn turned to his mate and affectionately licked her low-hanging
ears, flews, and dewlap. It was perfectly obvious that he understood her
grief and sought to assuage it. Finding that she paid no heed to him,
Finn turned from her gravely and walked within to where the three
remaining pups lay. Carefully he licked the big black-and-gray dog pup.
Still Desdemona remained outside. So Finn proceeded to lick one of the
other pups, the weakling of the group. This produced at once a faint
whimpering from the puppy, and that brought her mother quickly to her
side. Standing aside now, Finn watched the bloodhound settle herself
down to the task of nursing. Contented then, he walked to the mouth of
the cave and lay down there, gazing out reflectively across the green
ridge to the far-off Sussex weald.

It is easy for scientists to affirm that dogs cannot think. Call the
process what one may, Finn saw and understood his mate's grief. He
recognized that he could not give her comfort. He knew that if