There was no sign of the bloodhound near the mouth of the cave when Finn breasted the steep rise it faced.  But as he drew nearer there came sounds from out the cave which, while altogether bewildering in themselves, did at least indicate Desdemona’s presence there.  The first sound to reach him was a hoarse and threatening growl, a quite unmistakably minatory growl, from the throat of his own mate as she got her first wind of his, Finn’s, approach to the cave he had helped to make a home.  Finn paused for a moment, head raised and ears cocked, to consider this truly remarkable manifestation.  And as he listened, there issued from the den other small sounds of a totally different kind:  mild, twittering little bleatings; several voices, each weak and thin, and in some subtle way most curiously appealing to the wolfhound.

Then, in one flash of memory and reason, came vivid understanding of the whole business; as usual, in the form of a picture, Finn saw again, from that sun-washed English hill-side, the gaunt, bald foothills around Mount Desolation.  He saw the heat shimmering above the scorched rocks on which he slew Lupus in open fight, and witnessed the terrible disintegration of that fighter’s redoubtable sire, Tasman, under the foaming jaws and flashing feet of his own dingo mate, Warrigal.  But the picture did not show Finn any fighting.  It showed himself, at the den’s mouth, gazing in upon Warrigal, and Warrigal’s curved flank supporting a little bunch of wolfhound-dingo pups, helpless, blind, new-born, and cheeping thinly like caged birds.  Again came the sound of the small bleatings from the cave on the South Downs.  The Australian picture faded out from Finn’s excited mind, its task accomplished.  He knew now; and into the gentle whining which escaped his throat as he stepped forward to the cave’s entrance Finn introduced a note of reassurance and soothing understanding which even human ears would have comprehended and been satisfied by.

“All right, my mate,” said Finn’s gentle whining.  “I know, I know.  I’ll be very careful.”

And then came Desdemona’s answer as Finn’s great bulk blocked the entrance.  This time her voice struck a note quite new to her.  She understood now that Finn understood; she knew she was not to be called upon to shield that which she cherished in the cave there from immediate peril.  There was rest and thankfulness in Desdemona’s voice now; but withal, as Finn entered, there was more.

“Oh, please be very careful!  Be very careful!” said her whine, as her swimming eyes, with their deep-pouched crimson haws, looked up at Finn.  It would have been hard for Desdemona if she had been obliged now to take the defensive, for Finn found the beautiful bitch most utterly exhausted.  But, as he well knew, it had gone hardly too with the man or beast who should have forced the Lady Desdemona to her defense.  Weak and exhausted though she clearly was, the mother-passion looked out from her brimming eyes, and the call of need would have found her a living flame for valor, a most deadly force in a fight.