At last, he had his chance; he extended his arm and let fly the shaft,
which plunged, quivering, into the loin of the terrible beast that gave
a leap and a frightful snort.--“Dead!” exclaims the hunter with a shout
of glee, driving his spur for the hundredth time into the bloody flank
of his horse. “Dead! in vain he flees. The trail of his flowing blood
marks his way.” And so speaking, Teobaldo commenced to sound upon his
bugle the signal of triumph that his retinue might hear.
At that instant his steed stopped short, its legs gave way, a slight
tremor shook its strained muscles, it fell flat to the ground, shooting
out from its swollen nostrils, bathed in foam, a rill of blood.
It had died of exhaustion, died when the pace of the wounded boar was
beginning to slacken, when but one more effort was needed to run the
quarry down.