Old Blaze was terrified at the outcry, and swerved to the right and sought safety by endeavoring to show to the pack a burst of speed that would soon place him so far ahead as to leave behind only a very cold trail. But the hounds were equal to the emergency, and turned with the fox without a momentary bobble, and back to the Jarman fields proceeded the electrifying march, “full cry” being rendered by the grandest of musicians, whose music has inspired kings and peasants alike, infused them with nobler ambitions and attuned their hearts and primed their souls to the songs caroled by angel voices. Prompter has left the pack and now challenges Alice and Fashion. It becomes indeed a killing race for victory.
The chase is now two hours old. The fox found that he could not outstrip the pack. His revengeful pursuers could not be evaded by swift running tactics, for the air was damp and still, and he left behind him a scorching trail. One hope only now remained for him—he must make for the river hills, or else succumb. The fox on his circle back toward the river ran two miles west of where he had formerly tried to cross, and ere long the chase was on the bluff overlooking the river, whose broad expanse was dotted here and there with islets that seemed to float like graceful gondolas of green, and each echoed the notes of the hounds and, altogether, sounded like a hundred packs running in the river. Alice still maintained the lead. As the hounds dashed down a steep declivity, in sight of all, she is seen to strike her shoulder against a cruel projecting rock that causes her to tumble. She quickly got up and made an effort to follow the track, but her shoulder refuses to respond to her will and her foot hangs limp—her shoulder was broken. On three legs she follows far behind, crying the scent.
I hastily dismounted and caught her in my arms, giving rein to my mount. I was determined that she should see the finish, she who was so unfortunately deterred from brilliantly winning.
It is two miles to where the fox intends to go to earth. Fashion is crying the lead not sixty yards behind the quarry. The pack, with flaming tongues, is just behind, giving vent to short, defiant yelps. My horse is intensely excited and determined to outstrip the hunting field.
Ho! hear that defiant, agonized cry!
It is a sight race!
The hounds see the fox. His requiem is being sounded at every note. The fox is within a few hundred yards of his place of safety. The hounds seem to know it, and are running with an inspiration that means death to the fox. Little Alice in my arms cried pitifully and struggled tenaciously to be released, that she might endeavor to go to the vortex of the revengeful cry.
The hounds are closing in on the fox, and the splendid red turns toward his frantic pursuers, and rushes into the steel-hinged jaws of Fashion, meeting death as only the courageous die—facing it without a murmur. Prompter is the next hound to catch the fox, and soon his destruction is complete. In the midst of great delight, there is passing regret, for we deplore the fact that a creature so graceful, so noble, so courageous should forfeit his life after the splendid sport he had afforded us on that grand December morning.
Huntsville, Ala.