"Don't worry. And you must go to bed, François."
Richard waked to a glorious morning and to the hunt. Pink coats dotted the countryside. It seemed as if half the world was on its way to the club. Richard, as he mounted one of Pip's hunters, a powerful bay, felt the thrill of it all, and when he joined Eve and her party he found them in an uproarious mood.
Presently over hills streamed a picturesque procession—the hounds in the lead, the horses following with riders whose pink blazed against the green of the pines, against the blue of the river, against the fainter blue of the skies above.
And oh, the music of it, the sound of the horn, the bell-like baying, the thud of flying feet!
Then, ahead of them all, as the hounds broke into full cry, a silent, swift shadow—the old fox, Pete!
At first he ran easily. He had done it so often. He had thrown them off after a chase which had stirred his blood. He would throw them off again.
In leisurely fashion he led them. As the morning advanced, however, he found himself hard pushed. He was driven from one stronghold to another. Tireless, the hounds followed and followed, until at last he knew himself weary, seeking sanctuary.
He came with confidence to Crossroads. Beyond the garden was his den. Once within and the thing would end.
Across the lawn he loped, and little François, anxious at the window, spied him. "Will he get to it, will he get to it?" he said to Nancy, his small face white with the fear of what might happen, "and when he gets there will he be safe?"
"Yes," she assured him; "and when they have run him aground, they will ride away."