“Have you seen her?” asked Sir Tudor, when he reached the farmyard.
“Seed what, sir?”
“The hare?”
“No, sir, theere ed’n such a crittur in the country.”
Later the fiddler came running past. “Where are they, Andrew?” he asked breathlessly.
“Gone right over the ‘curley’ moor straight for Hayl Kimbra Pool. But what’s the hurry? Stop and have a bit of croust,[[10]] a bit o’ heavy cake.”[[11]]
“Lor’ bless the boy, ’tes no time for feasting nor fiddling. Did ’ee ever hear such pretty music as they little dogs give out?”
And without waiting for an answer the fiddler went off as if his life depended on being in at the finish.
Andrew had directed him well, for the hare had gone to the pool where he had his first swim. The hounds following, crossed it as if nothing could live before them; but on the far side of the moor, where beyond Trevescan it slopes gently to the sea, they were in difficulties. The hare had run along a stone wall, returned a score yards on his trail, leapt into the track it bordered, and gone off in the direction of his cliff retreat, now his goal.
There for the first time the squire came to their aid. He solved the mystery of the wall in vain, for the track held no scent, and he was face to face with defeat.