"Upstairs, downstairs,
And in my lady's chamber,"
The French chronicles of the reign of Francis I. tell the following
wonderful story of a boar hunt: "'Twas in a grand forest that stretched
for miles around a castle--an old-fashioned castle of ramparts and
towers, of wide halls and winding stairways.
Oliver, the twelve-year old son of the master of the castle, had set
his heart on going with his father to hunt the wild boar with the
gentlemen of the neighborhood. The forest was the home of a great many
wild creatures, great and small. Squirrels and hares lived there;
wide-antlered stags and timid does with their young fawns beside them,
foxes, boars that feasted on the black acorns and chestnuts that
covered the ground, and fierce gray wolves, seen chiefly in winter. The
boars were the fiercest of all, even the sows would fight for their
young ones, and there was one old boar who was by this time quite
famous for his courage, his cunning and his great age. He was called
Pique-Mort, which means death-thrust, because he had in his savage
onslaughts fatally wounded so many men, horses and dogs.
"Oliver's father had ordered the great hunt against this very old
warrior, who, by the way, had grown so shrewd that he could not always
be roused from his secret lair even by the beaters and prickers who
went ahead of the hunters. But he surely would appear to-day. The
forest was ringing with horns and bugles, the neighing of horses,
the baying of noble hounds, the hallooing and joyous clamor of the
sportsmen.
"Oliver was well prepared for the occasion. Old Bertrand had taught him
all the calls and recalls on bugle and horn, had trained him to thrust
with the long boar-spear, and to use the short, thick sword kept for
the last when the brute was near, and the big boar-hounds Vite-Vite,
and the others, turned and obeyed his voice when it rang out in its
clear, boyish treble. Most important of all, his mother had consented
to his going.
"But alas, and alas! when the morning dawned fair and sweet, poor
Oliver was racked with grievous pain and burning with fever! The chase
swept away with shout and cry and bugle-blast, and Oliver barely heeded
it or turned his head when his father called back: 'We'll bring old
Pique-Mort home with us.' However, by the afternoon the fever had
slackened, and the pain abated, and Oliver lay white and weak on his
couch, and with piteous tears on his cheeks over the mischance that had
held him fast at home. He turned his face to the wall in a burst of
passionate grief as they heard, at first far off, and then nearer and
nearer, the excited yelps of the dogs, then the trampling of horses,
the hoarse cries of the men, and oh, the bugle!--note of 'La Mort!'
which meant victory over the famous boar!
"'Oliver,' said his mother tenderly,--and then all at once came a sound
at which both started, and threw their arms about each other. In the
hall below, up the stairs, came a heavy creature, panting, snorting,
and the furious Pique-Mort suddenly burst upon their amazed vision!
Sinister and savage did he look, the little, round greedy eyes red with
rage, the bristles standing up like a cuirass, the sharp and cruel
tusks ready for assault, and foam and blood churned at their base into
a streaked froth by his heat and anger. He was within the chamber.
Oliver's arm dropped nerveless at his side, and his frightened eyes
sought vainly for any weapon.
"The mother had a quicker wit, and stooping down, she seized with both
arms a large Eastern rug, and threw it over the beast's head, blinding
him for the while, as well as blunting the thrust of the terrible
tusks. As he struggled desperately in its smothering and heavy folds,
the whole following--dogs, men and the master at their head, were up
the stairs also, and the death-stroke was quickly given. It was the end
of the veteran of so many chases in morass and thicket--Pique-Mort was
dead.
"After a moment's half-stupefied stare, the lord of the castle broke
forth:
"'Well, my boy, you were at the finish after all.' The dogs could not
be held off their old foe, and the brave boar was furious at their
baiting, and so broke away. My lady, you have the glory, and Oliver
his wish.'
"Old Bertrand stroked his grizzled beard.
"''Twas a gallant brute,' he said. 'Had he been a man they would have
styled him _hero_. He had a high courage and loved freedom well.'"
* * * * *
We have grown since those rough days into more compassion for animals,
but even yet we are not altogether just to their side of the question,
to the recognition of their right to life and its joys as their
merciful Creator has given it to them.