“Because,” replied my companion, “he reached the water some seconds before ourselves, and swimming so far down the stream, he gained the little bank of mud, where he squatted, with all the scent washed away from him. We could, therefore, carry it no further than where he took water, and as he did not break from it, the reason is obvious for our being unable to act otherwise than we did.”
“I can’t think how you came to suspect that he had laid up there,” remarked I.
“I never knew a fox to do so before,” returned the old hound. “Soil is about the only dodge a stag has to try his cunning at; but a fox rarely hangs in or about water. I, however,” continued he, “was prepared for any trick with the devil’s own, and my anticipation of a deep one proved correct.”
We now came to a more enclosed country, and the fences greatly added to our momentarily increasing distress. The hounds dropped off one by one, and some, attempting to jump the steep and wide ditches, fell into them, and there laid, not having strength enough to crawl out again.
It was fearful work, and how I managed to stagger forward is a mystery to me to this day. Trimbush did his best to cheer us on, and continually reminded us “that a kill was certain if we only stuck to him a little longer.” But this “little longer” appeared to be a very indefinite period.
The winter day was waning fast. Objects at a short distance began to loom through the thickening shades, and the sun’s last rays had scarcely left a faint tinge of his glory in the west. Still the chase went on. There was no check, let, or stop. On, on, we flew: the pursuing and pursued.
“He dies, by the Lord!” cried Trimbush, in perfect ecstacy, as we flashed a few yards over the scent, and then, turning, hit it off short to the right. “He dies, he dies!” cried he, throwing up his head, and waking a loud echo from his deep-toned tongue.
“What do you mean?” inquired I, reeling with weakness, and certain that my remaining strength was all but spent.
“His point was Gretwith rock, as I thought long since,” replied the old hound; “but he can’t live the distance. He has now turned short to run up wind, which proves him to be a sinking one, and if he reaches Quaffam wood it is as much as he can do.”
Seeing that Trimbush was serious, this sage opinion lent fresh aid to our flagging energies, and the skeleton of his force, comprising only Dashwood, Wildboy, and myself, answered his cheer by redoubling our efforts to run into the devil’s own.