Martin, his head jammed between the bars of the narrow window, let out a whoop of joy.
‘The Hunt, by God!’ he said. ‘Yes – Lord! There’s the pack not a quarter of a mile away! Glory be to God, was that a splodge of red behind that hedge? It was! Here he comes!’
His voice was resonant with excitement, and he struggled violently as if he would force himself through the iron bars.
‘There he is,’ he said again; ‘and yes, look at him – look at him! Half the county behind him! They’re in the park now. Gosh! They’re coming right for us. Quick! Yell to ’em! God! They mustn’t go past! How can we attract them! Yell at ’em! Shout something! They’ll be on us in a minute.’
‘I think,’ murmured a quiet, rather foolish voice that yet had a note of tension in its tone, ‘that in circumstances like this a “view-halloo” would be permissible. Quickly! Now, are you ready, my children? Let her go!’
There was utter silence after the shout died away upon the wind, and then Campion’s voice behind them murmured again:
‘Once more. Put your backs into it.’
The cry rang out wildly, agonizingly, a shout for help, and then again there was stillness.
Martin suddenly caught his breath.
‘They’ve heard,’ he said in a voice strangled with excitement. ‘A chap is coming over here now.’