Snare stretched his neck and peeped over his shoulder. As he did so, Shakespeare saw, that with the instinctive knowledge and jealousy of their nature, the herd were becoming aware that danger was in their close vicinity.
In an instant their heads were thrown back, the next moment Snare heard at some distance that short guttural noise, so peculiar to the deer at particular seasons of the year, and as the splendid animal upon which Shakespeare had fixed his eye caught the sound, it leaped to its feet and bounded from the spot, the whole herd in an instant also flying like the wind towards the cover, seemed to vanish into the mists of night; but ere his companion could stay his hand, Shakespeare had raised his bow to his shoulder and fired. The shot struck the deer just behind the shoulder, and the animal bounding into the air, fell struggling amongst the fern.
"Hark!" said Snare, as the same guttural sounds were again heard in the woods. "You should not have fired. 'Tis the signal from our comrades. The keepers are at hand."
"May the fiend take them," said Shakespeare.
"So say I," returned Snare; "but an we take not especial care, they will take us; for look ye, the startled herd will sweep by them yonder, and they will be upon us anon; and see, that huge beast is kicking and struggling like a dying ox,—quick, good William, strike roundly in and cut his throat."
So saying, Snare gave all his attention to the direction in which the sounds came, whilst Shakespeare, dashing upon the stag, seized the animal by the horns. There was then a short and desperate struggle, and with his sharp dagger he cut the creature's throat. He then as swiftly rejoined his companion. Scarcely had he done so ere they were both aware of the approach of the keepers, who having observed the affrighted herd, and at the same time noticed the peculiar sounds given by the watchers, and which were somewhat out of season, came directly upon them.
"We might easily shew them a clean pair of heels, and join the bulky Froth without the palings," whispered Snare; "but we must have yonder beast at all hazards; and we can but make a fight of it if it come to the worst. Down with thee, good Will, flat in the fern. Here they come—I see them plainly in yonder glade." So saying, Snare threw himself on the ground close beside Shakespeare, and immediately divesting himself of his jerkin and hat, rose up again a most grisly object—neither more nor less than Mors, or Dreary Death. Meanwhile the rangers came quickly on, four in number, and each armed with cross-bows and a short barbed, spear.
They advanced to within about a bow-shot from the tree behind which Snare and Shakespeare were concealed, when the former, slowly gliding from behind its stern, advanced directly upon them.
The first sight of such an apparition, seen but indistinctly amongst the huge boughs, brought the whole party to a stand. They but half made out its hideous outline, when it emerged into the clear moonlight, and seemed gliding upon them, "a bare-ribbed death, horrible to sight." To say the keepers were frightened would be to say little. They were at first paralysed, and then turning, they fled like the wind; whilst Snare immediately again threw himself flat on his face, and was lost to sight amongst the fern; so that, as the keepers looked back whilst they fled, the apparition had apparently vanished into the earth.
Rejoining Shakespeare, Snare now resumed his outward garment; and taking advantage of the panic, both hastily approached the deer, and securing its legs, fastened them on a quarter-staff which they had supported on their shoulders, they then hastened across the glade.