Hunting foxes with a pack of hounds is an English and American pastime; hunting wolves with borzoi dogs is a Russian amusement; hunting the boar, the national entertainment of Bharbazonia. The alacrity with which the men started, when we were at last in the saddle, revealed their impatience at the delay.
"Keep an eye on the Prince, Nick," called the General from the castle door. "Remember Marbosa's oath. Only three days are left."
"All right, Godfather," Nick replied. But he did not offer any explanation to me as to what the Duke proposed to do, and deftly changed the subject. All he would say was that the General was talking politics and that one is wise who does not bother his head about what does not concern him.
Nevertheless, I secretly concluded that it would be just as well for me to keep as near the Prince as possible during the day. Some political plot was coming to a head of which I knew nothing. What this danger was that seemed to threaten I could not imagine, but I connected it with the horsemen who rode in the early hours of the dawn, and who loitered around the summer-house in their long Spanish cloaks.
The Prince, riding at the head of the pack as perfectly erect as a cavalryman, was surrounded by his father's retainers, and close under the eye of the Master of the Hounds, when we joined him. Like the good-natured boy he seemed to be, he was enjoying the ride to the full. His cheeks were flushed with the healthy outdoor exercise and his eyes were bright with excitement. It was an ideal day with just enough of the brisk cut of winter in the air to keep the blood a-moving.
"It is good to be alive," he said, darting a quick look over his shoulder as we came up.
"Where have you planned to hunt, Prince?" asked Nicholas, ranging on one side of the black horse while I took the other.
"In the Forest of Zin."
"On the Framkor side of the river, or on Marbosa's?"
"My camp is pitched beside the Big Spring."