"This," said Darby philosophically, "will cost me twenty pounds. Be careful, Psyche." Her name slipped out as Whitebird topped a newly-bushed-up bank and pecked in the tangle.
"Isn't it great entirely? That same is Thady Lawless's rye grass, an' he will be upset over it," piped Andy. "Have ye the nippers, Barty; there is wire oberight us."
They got round the wire. Red clods of dry earth, wheat sown, rattled up from their heels. The scratch pack pounced on a breast-high scent down the slopes and into the fertile valley, with the woods of Dillon's Court on their left.
Here the old fox was plainly making for Castletown Roche, four miles ahead and up hill.
"An' a planted counthry," said Andy. "Look at Grandjer! Isn't he the boy?"
Scent failed as the sun rose higher; where the mist clung hounds ran fast, but more slowly in the open, a they sped across meadows, while astounded owners remarked bitterly that it was a damn shame entirely, until assured by Darby that hounds had got away were being chased until caught.
"Lie back a field, then," advised Andy, "an' if they thrun up we could not do that same excuse for the next man."
"The worst man of all," said Darby, "will be Sir Hercules Roche. This is all rye grass we are crossing."
Sorrow died as they galloped, with the horses fencing accurately, with hounds driving steadily ahead, the music echoing and ringing, with little Psyche, her face aglow, close by the Master, crying out in pure rapture, oblivious of crops or damage.
The first wood of Castletown Roche lay on a steep slope. The servants, going to the left, got into the place with difficulty. Darby pulled up, listening; then he scrambled off. The old fox, sorely astonished, had saved his brush, and was safe in a big rabbit-hole.