The broker stooped and patted the dumb brute affectionately. "I understand, Lion," he said. "Yes, I understand you." The dog looked lovingly up into his master's face, and whined for joy. CHAPTER VIII. This incident, trifling as it was, I think, did more than anything which had preceded it to make me aware of the nature of that which had befallen me. The live brute could still communicate with the living man. Skill of scientist and philosopher was as naught to help the human spirit which had fled the body to make itself understood by one which occupied it still. More blessed in that moment was Lion, the dog, than Esmerald Thorne, the dead man. I said to myself:-- "I am a desolate and an outcast creature. I am become a dumb thing in a deaf world." I thrust my hands before me, and wrung them with a groan. It seemed incredible to me that I could die; that was more wonderful, even, than to know that I was already dead. "It is all over," I moaned. "I have died. I am dead. I am what they call a dead man." Now, at this instant, the dog turned his head. No human tympanum in the room vibrated to my cry. No human retina was recipient of my anguish. What fine, unclassified senses had the highly-organized animal by which he should become aware of me? The dog turned his noble head--he was a St. Bernard, with the moral qualities of the breed well marked upon his physiognomy; he lifted his eyes and solemnly regarded me. After a moment's pause he gave vent to a long and mournful cry. "Don't, Lion," I said. "Keep quiet, sir. This is dreadful!" The dog ceased howling when I spoke to him; after a little hesitation he came slowly to the spot where I was standing, and looked earnestly into my face, as if he saw me. Whether he did, or how he did, or why he did, I knew not, and I know not now. The main business of this narrative will be the recording of facts. Explanations it is not mine to offer; and of speculations I have but few, either to give or to withhold. A great wistfulness came into my soul, as I stood shut apart there from those living men, within reach of their hands, within range of their eyes, within the vibration of their human breath. I looked into the animal's eyes with the yearning of a sudden and an awful sense of desolation. "Speak to me, Lion," I whispered. "Won't you speak to me?" "What is that dog about?" asked the customer, staring. "He is standing in the middle of the room and wagging his tail as if he had met somebody." The dog at this instant, with eager signs of pleasure or of pity--I could not, indeed, say which--put his beautiful face against my hand, and kissed, or seemed to kiss it, sympathetically. "He has queer ways," observed Jason, the clerk, carelessly; "he knows more than most folks I know."