It had not been easy to coax Caesar inside, even into a stable, but
Franz had succeeded both in getting him in and in persuading the big
Alpine Mastiff to sleep at his feet. Now, as the wind screamed through
St. Bernard Pass and the frost cut like a sharp knife, Franz grinned to
himself.
He understood that the three other _maronniers_ at the Hospice; the
novices, or apprentice priests; the Aumonier, who welcomed guests and
dispensed charity; the Clavandier, who watched over all stores; the
Sacristan, whose duty it was to take charge of the Chapel; the Abbe, who
watched over the novices; the four Canons, whose authority was exceeded
only by that of the Prior, and even the great Prior himself, slept in
unheated cells.
He was not positive about this because anyone as lowly as he could never
be sure about the doings of people as mighty as they. For all he knew,
the Hospice would collapse if he spoke to any of the Canons, and the
mountains themselves would tumble if he even looked at the Prior. But he
thought it was true.
If it was, then he, Franz Halle, the humblest of the humble
_maronniers_, had by far the finest sleeping quarters in Great St.
Bernard Pass. With fragrant hay as a mattress, plenty of blankets, a dog
to keep his feet warm, and the four gentle cows of the Hospice to add
their warmth to the stable, let the wind scream as it would and the
frost crackle as it might. He would never care.
Caesar shifted his position at Franz's feet, to bring his head nearer
the boy's right hand. Franz took his hand from beneath the blankets to
tickle Caesar's ears, and a worried frown creased his forehead.
Besides Caesar, he had two firm friends at the Hospice, Father Benjamin
and Anton Martek. The other two _maronniers_ were surly individuals who
kept much to themselves. Franz did not even know their names. The
novices, boys about Franz's own age, were much too busy with their own
duties to have any time for a mere _maronnier_. Naturally it was
unthinkable, aside from attending devotions, to intrude on the world of
the priests. Father Benjamin, who came to the stable at regular
intervals, had made a real effort to strengthen a friendship that began
when he and Franz came up the path together.
Anton Martek worried Franz, and the dawn to dark work Anton demanded had
no bearing on it, for the boy did not mind working long hours. But there
was Caesar, too. The mastiff had worked willingly beside his master
while they freighted hay or wood from the lower reaches or carried
supplies from the inn at Cantine. But winter was fast approaching, and
when it came, there would be almost no packing for Caesar, and
everything that lived at the Hospice must necessarily earn its own way.
Since there was little else, Anton and Franz had tried their valiant
best to make a spit dog of Caesar. But the great animal, who did so many
things so well, seemed wholly unable to adjust to what he doubtless
considered the low comedy of turning a spit. On the first trial, he
whirled in his tracks and snatched at and ate the roast he was supposed
to be turning. When Anton fashioned a harness that made it impossible
for him to turn, Caesar's nearness to the fire, with its unaccustomed
warmth, made him so uncomfortable that he simply lay down and refused to
move at all.
A longer pole that put him farther away from the fire offended his
dignity. Rather than pace slowly, so that the meat would turn slowly and
roast evenly on all sides, he whirled at such speed that it was a marvel
the roast stayed on the spit. Weights on his paws, designed to slow him
down, aroused his stubbornness. Rather than turn the spit at all, he
pulled it completely apart and let the roast fall into the fire.
Shouting threats accomplished nothing. Caesar knew his own strength and,
providing it was consistent with his dignity, he would work because he
loved Franz. He would not be bullied. Rewards in the shape of meat
dangled enticingly before him were haughtily rejected. Caesar would not
be bribed, either.
The stubborn Anton had not abandoned hope and was still determined to
make a spit dog of Caesar, but, in the darkness, Franz's worried frown
deepened. The mastiff was equally determined that he would not turn the
spit, therefore, not even Anton could make him do it.
An anguished little moan escaped Franz. If Caesar were declared useless
and banished from the mountain, life in St. Bernard Pass, that had
become so very fine, would be so very bleak. A second time Franz reached
out to ruffle the big mastiff's ears.
"Try!" he whispered fiercely. "Try hard, Caesar!"
The dog licked his hand. Thus comforted, his body cushioned by soft hay,
warmed by blankets and Caesar, and with the cattle adding their warmth
to the stable, Franz never heard the wind scream and never thought of
the frost.
He was awakened by Anton Martek, who lighted his way into the stable
with a glass-shielded candle. Caesar rose and wagged his tail to greet
this new friend whom he had come to like so well, and Franz sat sleepily
up in bed. Anton hung his candle-lantern on a wooden peg.
"It is time to be up," he scoffed good-naturedly. "The day is for
working."
"It is not day yet," Franz protested.