Another dog was coming.

A great Danish hound, with white eyes, black-and-tan ears, and tail as long and smooth as a policeman’s night-club;—­one of those sleek and shining dogs with powerful chest and knotted legs, a little bowed in front, black lips, and dazzling, fang-like teeth.  He was spattered with brown spots, and sported a single white foot.  Altogether, he was a dog of quality, of ancestry, of a certain position in his own land,—­one who had clearly followed his master’s mountain wagon to-day as much for love of adventure as anything else.  A dog of parts, too, who could perhaps, hunt the wild boar, or give chase to the agile deer.  He was certainly not an inn dog.  He was rather a palace dog, a chateau, or a shooting-box dog, who, in his off moments, trotted behind hunting carts filled with guns, sportsmen in knee-breeches, or in front of landaus when my lady went an-airing.

And with all this, and quite naturally, he was a dog of breeding, who, while he insisted on his own rights, respected those of others.  I saw this before he had spoken ten words to the concierge,—­the St. Bernard dog, I mean.  For he did talk to him, and the conversation was just as plain to me, tilted back against the wall, out of the sun, waiting for my cutlets and coffee, as if I had been a dog myself, and understood each word of it.

First, he walked up sideways, his tail wagging and straight out, like a patent towel-rack.  Then he walked round the concierge, who followed his movements with becoming interest, wagging his own tail, straightening his forelegs, and sidling around him kindly, as befitted the stranger’s rank and quality, but with a certain dog-independence of manner, preserving his own dignities while courteously passing the time of day, and intimating, by certain twists of his tail, that he felt quite sure his excellency would like the air and scenery the farther he got up the pass,—­all strange dogs did.

During this interchange of canine civilities, the landlord was helping out the two men, the companions of the dog.  One was round and pudgy, the other lank and scrawny.  Both were in knickerbockers, with green hats decorated with cock feathers and edelweiss.  The blue-shirted porter carried in the bags and alpenstocks, closing the coffee-room door behind them.

Suddenly the strange dog, who had been beguiled by the courteous manner of the concierge, realized that his master had disappeared.  The man had been hungry, no doubt, and half blinded by the glare of the sun.  After the manner of his kind, he had dived into this shelter without a word to the dumb beast who had tramped behind his wheels, swallowing the dust his horses kicked up.

When the strange dog realized this,—­I saw the instant the idea entered his mind, as I caught the sudden toss of the head,—­he glanced quickly about with that uneasy, anxious look that comes into the face of a dog when he discovers that he is adrift in a strange place without his master.  What other face is so utterly miserable, and what eyes so pleading, the tears just under the lids, as the lost dog’s?