The fire was raging so fiercely when Brian's regiment arrived that no
one would have ventured into the house if a dog hadn't been heard to
howl. You know how Brian loves dogs. When he found that the sound came
from a certain room on the ground floor, he determined to get in
somehow. Masses of ivy cloaked that side of the chateau. It was
beginning to crackle with fire that flamed out from other windows, but
Brian climbed the thick, rope-like stems, hundreds of years old, and
smashed his way through the window. The room was filling with smoke. The
dog's voice was choked. Brian's eyes streamed, but he wouldn't give up.
Only by crawling along the floor under the smoke curtain could he get at
the dog. Somebody had meant to murder the animal, for he had been
chained to the leg of a table.
Brian wrote that the dog realized his danger, and was grateful as a
human being to his rescuer. His worship of Brian was pathetic. He seemed
to care for no one else, though he was too fine a gentleman not to be
polite to all--all, that is, except Germans. They never dared let him
loose when prisoners were about. The sight of a gray-green uniform was
to that dog what a red rag is to a bull. For him some horror was
associated with it--a horror which must remain a mystery for us.
The day Brian lost his eyesight he lost Sirius. When he came back to
consciousness, only to learn that he was blind, his first thought was of
his friend. No one knew what had happened to the dog.
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