Then, like the notes of a single instrument swelling into the magnificent crescendo of a grand orchestra, the hounds jumped the fox from his mossy lair and sped away in swift pursuit, filling the hills and hollows with music, wild yet thrillingly in tune. Fond of detouring the level fields before his jaunt to the river hills, and proud of his fleetness of foot, the spirited red began an elaborate journey by leaving the woods and swinging out into the plantations, now vocal with the anthems of the happy darkies, whose sweet songs of contentment are cadences to the time to which they gather the snowy cotton.
We rode to the yelping pack, each steed seeming eager to outstrip the field. With nostrils red, steaming and distended, eyes dilated and flashing wicked fire, they bear their riders to the density of the thickening cry. The world seems vibrant with the music of the cascades of glorious enthusiasm, and hunters are oblivious to all save the inspiration of the matchless moment. We are now within easy view of the running pack, that dashed high into the air the melting frost which descended like a shower of diamond sparks, while Alice—game little hound, her wild-goose notes pealing out far above the unbroken cry—led the pack at a killing pace. Fashion was at her flank, with Prompter not a length behind, and across the valley’s fertile expanse the race for victory began.
“Go on, Fashion!” yelled Colonel Gilchrist, tiptoeing in his stirrups, his hat off. She heard and heeded his shout of encouragement and gradually lessened the lead of Alice. But Alice, long an invincible leader, was not to be vanquished without a desperate struggle. The main pack was spread out like an open fan. A blanket could have covered the thirty-seven demons that raced together to be the first to cry the burning scent that crazes the brains of the hounds, and converts them into yelping, frenzied fiends.
The fox and hounds entered a strip of woods and for the moment are lost to view. A meadow was being crossed and Fashion, like a dart from an Indian’s ashen bow, flashed up to Alice, and Colonel Gilchrist set up a yell that seemed to split the azure dome of the sky. Prompter had fallen back and was running with the pack. The course of the fox was now directed towards the river. The chase was one hour old, and hard pressed in open country, he would seek refuge in the crags and cliffs that overhang the beautiful, the picturesque, the turbulent Mussel Shoals.
“Follow me and see the fox!” I shouted, and dashed away, followed by the other hunters to a stand where the fox was sure to cross. We reached the place not a moment too soon, for Sir Reynard, with long, poetic leaps, came splitting down the vale. His head was held defiantly in the air, his handsome amber brush was carried proudly high. Like a red streak he flashed into the woods and was lost to view in its density. The hunters remained silent until the hounds had passed. They were heard coming fast behind, like a maddened musical avalanche, with Alice leading Fashion by several lengths. While Fashion continued the valiant fight for supremacy, her slender black neck, ringed with white, elevated, her shapely head was thrown back like the antlers of a frightened deer, dashing from the hunter’s snare to sweet security. All the hounds but Scott’s were well packed.
Away speed the hunters! Faster fly the hounds.
At once there arose so wild a yell,
“As if all the fiends from heaven that fell
Had pealed the banner cry of hell.”
The fox was approaching the crossing to the river. The negroes on guard had heard the hounds coming and were endeavoring to turn him back.