“Wild country this, Tresillian,” said the Major of Sir Bevil’s old battery as they rode along side by side.
“Yes, it’s more or less like this all the way to Dartmoor, heather and gorse on the surface, tin and copper underground. It’s the backbone of the county in more sense than one.”
“And Lyonnesse must be somewhere near?”
“That,” said Sir Bevil, smiling, “is the submerged land between the Land’s End and the Scillies. Scientists, confound ’em, are trying to prove that the sea has covered it since the Creation. What right have they got to meddle with our traditions? They’ll be saying next that the letters[[1]] on the Men Scryfa—it’s in a croft over that ridge facing us—have been cut out by the action of the weather on the granite.”
“Well, Andrew,” said Sir Bevil as he rode up, “where do you think we may find to-day?”
“I caan’t hardly tell, sir,” said he, keeping pace with the horse; “but at daybreak this morning I balled a fox”—at this Sir Bevil pulled up his horse,—“on that bit o’ soft ground under Ding Dong on the Quoit side, and seys I to missel, me shaver es moast likely kennelled in that bit o’ snug fuzze to the lew side of the stennack.”
“Very well, we will draw that next and drop back to Boswortha if we do not find,” added Sir Bevil as he rode away to give instructions to the huntsman.
“Come ust on, Jim, best foot foremost, or the draw’ll be over afore we get theere.” They gained the crest of a rise overlooking the cover just as the huntsman, who was now afoot with the hounds around him, was about to draw it.
“Wheere ded ee light on they theere prents of the fox, An’rew?”
“Do ee saa thet big bunch o’ rooshes anigh the pool, away ahead of the rock touchin’ the Squire?”