As they cleared the bushes they "viewed" again from a distance the hounds running in a straight line, skirting a pasture at the edge of a wood half a mile away. The field below to their left was now a thin line of single horsemen or groups of twos and threes. Behind Bent were Billy Haviland and the Baroness. Down the hill they went, more carefully this time, then up again over rocky ground dotted with pitfalls of ice and snow which made the going hazardous. Janney's crowd below on the level meadows was forging ahead, but when Camilla reached the top of the next hill she saw that, instead of surging toward the river, the hounds were far away to the right in open country and going very fast. They reached the road from the meadow just as Curtis Janney, closely followed by Gretchen and Mrs. Cheyne, Larry, and Jeff, came riding into the open.
"Have you 'viewed'?"
Cortland Bent pointed with his crop, and they all saw the pack making for the woods and the trees which lined the creek in the hollow beyond. It was a wide stretch of open country made up of half a dozen fields and fences. The short, sharp cry of the hounds as they sighted the fox was music to Camilla, but the roar of the wind in her ears and the thunder of the horses' hoofs were sweeter. It was a race for the creek. The Master, on his big thoroughbred, was three lengths in the lead, but Jeff, Mrs. Cheyne, and Camilla, just behind him, were taking their jumps together.
At the third fence, for some reason, Mackinaw refused, and, scarcely knowing how it had happened, Camilla slid forward over his ears to the ground. She was a little stunned, but managed to keep her hold on the reins, and before Cortland Bent could dismount she was on her feet again, her cheeks a little pale, but in nowise injured.
"Are you hurt, Camilla?"
"No. Help me up quickly, Cort." She had seen Jeff and Mrs. Cheyne draw rein a moment on the other side of the fence, but, when she rose, ride on together. Jeff shouted something to her, but she could not hear it.
"I didn't give him his head," Camilla stammered. "I'll know better now."
"For God's sake, be careful," whispered Bent.
If she heard him she gave no sign of it, for, with her face pale and her lips compressed, she made a wide turn, and, before the rest of the field came up, she had put Mackinaw at the jump again, giving him his head and the crop on his flank just before he rose to it. The frightened animal cleared the rails with two feet to spare and a good six feet on the farther side, and, when Jeff turned at the bank of the creek to look, he saw Mackinaw nobly clearing the last fence that remained between them.
Camilla, her color coming slowly back, kept her eyes fixed on the smart silk hat of Mrs. Cheyne. The memory of Mrs. Cheyne's smile infuriated her. Her manner was so superior, her equipment so immaculate, her seat such a fine pattern of English horsemanship. The run was to be long, they said. Perhaps there would still be time to show that she could ride—as the boys in the West rode, for every inch—for every pound.