The Welsh Prince Llewellyn had a noble deerhound, Gellert, whom he
trusted to watch the cradle of his baby son whilst he himself was
absent.
One day, on his return, to his intense horror, he beheld the cradle
empty and upset, the clothes dabbled with blood, and Gellert's mouth
dripping with gore. Concluding hastily that the hound had proved
unfaithful, had fallen on the child and devoured it,--in a paroxysm of
rage the prince drew his sword and slew the dog. Next instant the cry
of the babe from behind the cradle showed him that the child was
uninjured; and, on looking farther, Llewellyn discovered the body of a
huge wolf, which had entered the house to seize and devour the child,
but which had been kept off and killed by the brave dog Gellert.
In his self-reproach and grief, the prince erected a stately monument
to Gellert, and called the place where he was buried after the poor
hound's name.
Now, I find in Russia precisely the same story told, with just the
same appearance of truth, of a Czar Piras. In Germany it appears with
considerable variations. A man determines on slaying his old dog
Sultan, and consults with his wife how this is to be effected. Sultan
overhears the conversation, and complains bitterly to the wolf, who
suggests an ingenious plan by which the master may be induced to spare
his dog. Next day, when the man is going to his work, the wolf
undertakes to carry off the child from its cradle. Sultan is to attack
him and rescue the infant. The plan succeeds admirably, and the dog
spends his remaining years in comfort. (Grimm, K. M. 48.)
But there is a story in closer conformity to that of Gellert among the
French collections of fabliaux made by Le Grand d'Aussy and EdA(C)lA(C)stand
du MA(C)ril. It became popular through the "Gesta Romanorum," a
collection of tales made by the monks for harmless reading, in the
fourteenth century.