“I believe he doth hardly remember me,” said Hepborne, moving away; “he seems now to be little better than a clod of earth.”
The old dog, however, though he had scarcely stirred for many months before, began to whimper, and rearing up his huge body with great pain, as if in stretching each limb he required to break the bonds that age had rivetted every joint withal, and getting at last on his legs, he began to follow Sir Patrick, whining and wagging his tail. Hepborne, seeing his feeble state, did what he could to drive him back; but the dog persisted in following him. [[90]]
“Poor old affectionate fellow,” said Hepborne, “go with me, then, thou shalt, though I should have to carry thee back. Assueton,” continued he, “let us climb the lofty height of Dunpender, whence we shall have such a view around us as may enable us to descry the hunting-party, if they be anywhere within the range of our ken.”
CHAPTER XI.
The Wolf Hunt—A Desperate Encounter.
They accordingly made their way through the intervening woods, lawns, and alleys, and ascended the steep side of the hill. From the summit, the beautiful vale of the Tyne was fully commanded, and the extent and variety of the prospect was such as to occupy them for some time in admiration of it. Hepborne discovered a thousand spots and points in it connected with old stories of his youth. He touched on all these in succession to Assueton, his heart overflowing with his feelings, and his eyes with the remembrance of his beloved mother, whose image was continually recurring to him. He made his friend observe the distant eminences in parts of Scotland afar off; and Assueton, amongst others, was overjoyed to descry the blue top of that hill at the base of which he had been born, and whither his heart bounded to return.
“Hark,” said Hepborne, suddenly interrupting the enthusiastic greeting his friend was wafting towards his distant home—“hark! methinks I hear the sound of bugles echoing faintly through the woods below; dost thou not hear?”
“I do,” said Assueton, “and methinks I also hear the yelling note of the sleuth-hounds.”
“That bugle-mot was my father’s,” said Hepborne; “I know it full well; I could swear to it anywhere. Nay, yonder they ride. Dost not see them afar off yonder, sweeping across the green alures and avenues, where the wood-shaws are thinnest? Now they cross the wide lawnde yonder—and now they are lost amid the shade of these oakshaws. They come this way; let us hasten downward; we shall have ill luck an we meet them not at the bottom of the hill.”