Sperver had passed his arm round the dog's neck, and, turning to me,
said--
"Fritz, what man could love me as this dog does? Do look at this head,
these eyes, these teeth!"
He uncovered the animal's teeth, displaying a set of fangs that would
have pulled down and rent a buffalo. Then repelling him with difficulty,
for the dog was re-doubling his caresses--
"Down, Lieverle. I know you love me. If you did not, who would?"
Never had I seen so tremendous a dog as this Lieverle. His height
attained two feet and a half. He would have been a most formidable
creature in an attack. His forehead was broad, flat, and covered with
fine soft hair; his eye was keen, his paws of great length, his sides
and legs a woven mass of muscles and nerves, broad over the back and
shoulders, slender and tapering towards the hind legs. But he had no
scent. If such monstrous and powerful hounds were endowed with the scent
of the terrier there would soon be an end of game.
Sperver had returned to his seat, and was passing his hand over
Lieverle's massive head with pride, and enumerating to me his excellent
qualities.
Lieverle seemed to understand him.
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