They saw the gallant stag swoop over the oak-pales as if they were no obstacle—they saw the yelping pack crash and climb after him; then they saw Gerald Howard on his tall coal-black barb soar over it unhindered—but all the rest turned right and left to gate or gap, or ere they might follow him. The valley was crossed as by a whirlwind—the river swam by hart, hound, and hunters, unhesitating and unheeding—and far beyond up the green moorland pastures, over the stone walls, now disappearing over the hill-tops into the misty hollows, now glinting up again into light over some yet more distant stretch of purple heath, and still the chiding of the hounds, and still the wild bursts of the French-horns fell faintly on the ears, as the wind freshened from the westward—but at length sound and sight failed them, and when silence had sunk still and solitude reigned almost perfect over the late peopled slope of thorny brae and the one-tree hill, the gay bevy of dames and damsels returned homeward, something the more serious if not the sadder for the parting, to await the gathering of their partners to the gay evening meal.
Long they awaited—late it grew—the evening meal was over—the close of night had come—the lights in bower and hall were kindled—the gates were locked and barred—long ere the first of the belated foresters, returned soiled and splashed, way-worn and weary, with the jaded and harassed hounds, and horses almost dead from the exertion and exhaustion of the day. At midnight, of the field all the men save one were collected, though two or three came in on foot, and yet more on borrowed horses—their own good steeds left in the morass or on the moorland, to feed the kites and the hill-foxes—of the pack all save two mustered at the kennel-gates in such plight as the toil they had borne permitted.
The man missing was Sir Gerald Howard, the master of the pack, the two hounds were its two leaders, Hercules and Hard-heart, of whom no rider had ever yet seen the speed slacken or the heart fail.
The old verdurer, who gave out the last, reported Gerald Howard going well, when he saw him last, with the stag and two Talbots of all in full view—and this many miles into Scotland within the pleasant vale of Teviotdale, with the great Scottish hills grim and gray, towering up before him, and the night closing fast on those dim solitudes.
It was late on the next day when Sir Gerald Howard was seen riding up the road on the same steed he had backed so gallantly, still weary and worn, though recruited—with the huge antlers at his saddle-bow, but no brave Talbots at his heel.
He had ridden far into the darkness, still guided by the baying of the staunch hounds; and when he could see to ride no longer, had obtained timely succor and refreshment from a stout borderer of Teviot-side. At daylight remounted a fresh horse, a garron of the country, to renew the chase; but it was now soon ended. Scarce had he gone a mile on the straight line they had run throughout ere he found Hard-heart stiff and cold on the mountain heather, and not a hundred yards yet onward, ere the great stag lay before him, not a hair of his hide injured, and Hercules beside him, with his head upon his haunches, where he had breathed his last, powerless to blood the brave quarry he had so nobly conquered.
Sixty miles had they run on that summer’s day from point, they had died together, and in their graves they were not confounded, for a double tomb was scooped in the corrie or hollow of the mountain-side, wherein they were found, and above it was piled a rough, gray column, whereon may be seen rudely sculptured this true epitaph,
Hercules killed Hart O’Grease,
And Hart O’Grease killed Hercules.
For, reader mine, this is a real and true tale, and I, who tell it you, have sat upon the stone, and tempered my cup of Ferintosh from the little rill beside it, with the wild peak of the Maiden’s Pass before me, the dark Cheviots at my right, the blue heights of the Great Moor looming away almost immeasurably to the westward, and no companions near me save the red grouse of the heather, and the curlew of the morass, nothing to while away the time that my weary setters slept in the noonday sun, save this old-time tradition.