He laughed pleasantly, for he was in exceedingly good temper just now.
"As for that chivalrous Beau Brocade," he added as he hoisted himself into the saddle, "he shall, an I mistake not, dangle on a gibbet before another nightfall."
"Hark!" he added, as the yelping of the bloodhound once more woke the silent Moor with its eerie echo.
Mittachip's scanty locks literally stood up beneath his bob-tail wig. Even Sir Humphrey could not altogether repress a shudder as he listened to the shouts, the cries, the snarls, which were rapidly drawing nearer.
"We should have waited to be in at the death," he said, with enforced gaiety. "Meseems our fox is being run to earth at last."
He tried to laugh, but his laughter sounded eerie and unnatural, and suddenly it was interrupted by the loud report of a pistol shot, followed by what seemed like prolonged yells of triumph.
Master Mittachip could bear it no longer; with the desperation of intense and unreasoning terror he dug his spurs into his horse's flanks, and like a madman galloped at breakneck speed down the hillside into the valley below.
Sir Humphrey followed more leisurely. He had gained his end and was satisfied.
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE QUARRY