"Aye! aye! Sir Humphrey! your anger is quite natural, and Squire West assured me that that rascal Beau Brocade, who played you this impudent trick, cannot fail to be caught. The hunt is well organised, he cannot escape."
As if to confirm the attorney's words, there rose at this moment from afar a weird and eerie sound, which caused Master Mittachip's shrivelled flesh to creep along his bones.
"What was that?" he whispered, horror-struck.
"A blood-hound, the better to track that rascal," muttered Sir Humphrey, savagely.
The attorney shivered; there had been so much devilish malice in his Honour's voice, that suddenly his puny heart misgave him. He took to wishing himself well out of this unmanly business. The horror of it seemed to grip him by the throat: he was superstitious too, and firmly believed in a material hell; the sound of that distant snarl, followed by the significant yelping of a hound upon the scent, made him think of the cries the devils would utter at sight of the damned.
"The dog belongs to one of Squire West's grooms," remarked his Honour, carelessly, "a savage beast enough, by the look of him. Luck was in our favour, for our gallant highwayman had carried Lady Patience's plaint inside his coat for quite a long time, and then left it on his Honour's table ... quite enough for any self-respecting blood-hound, and this one is said to be very keen on the scent.... Squire West tried to protest, but set a dog to catch a dog, say I."
Master Mittachip tried to shut his ears to the terrible sound. Fortunately it was getting fainter now, and Sir Humphrey did not give him time for much reflection.
His Honour had stopped for awhile listening, with a chuckle of intense satisfaction, to the yelping of the dog straining on the leash, then when the sound died away, he said abruptly,—
"Are we still far from the hut?"
"No, Sir Humphrey," stammered Mittachip, whose very soul was quaking with horror.