A piece of bog in process of reclamation--there the fox had taken
refuge. He might be lying in some clump of grass. He might have
slipped into one of the many drains the strong farmer had made in his
attempt to make arable land of what was morass. Here and there were
green patches, still dangerous, where a whole hunt might be engulfed.
Neither the master nor the huntsman cared to chance their mounts in
that treacherous sward. They halloed the hounds to and fro.
"Leu in, lads, leu in! Ranger, Rambler, Tinker, Tim! On to him,
beauties, on to him!"
But the hounds were at fault, utterly. They howled with baffled
desire. They went to and fro, sterns twitching, noses aground. Two or
three beaten hunters turned up, their horses gone, their fire quenched,
sitting dully in the saddle, thankful for the respite of check.
"We 've overrun," the huntsman grumbled.
"I 'm afraid so, Willie John," the master nodded. But some secondary
sense told Morgan the fox was there. He had gone to ground and the
hounds had failed to mark him.
"Try a short up-wind cast," the master directed.
The hounds were halloed out, and as they swung to the left, Morgan
noticed the red shadow flit along a ditch, slip through a hedge. He
spurred his horse in excitement.
"Yoi doit!" Morgan called. "View halloo!" But some trick of wind
muffled his voice. Behind him three hundred yards away the hounds were
following the huntsman about, heads up.
The fox was tired, his brush heavy with mud and dragging as he ran.
Behind him Morgan thundered alone. He damned the huntsman. He damned
the hounds.
"They 're going to miss, blast their stupid heads!" But he kept on.
His hope was that the fox would turn, and the huntsman and hounds see
him, and coming up, finish the day's work.
But the fox kept onward. Now across a plowed field, now across fallow
land. Here a fence, here a ditch, here a hedge. What was the use of
following him, with no hounds? But a mania arose in Morgan's brain,
and he could n't bear to drop the chase now, so near to completion. A
vast anger arose in him. He felt he had been betrayed. Never was a
huntsman so stupid. Never hounds so bad.
The fox ahead of him put on a new spurt, and Morgan dug his heels into
his horse's flanks. Where was it heading for?
He looked up for a moment and saw the four-foot crumbling wall of the
old abbey. So there 's where it thought sanctuary might be found. The
fox sought the protection of the Fitzpauls, even now they were dead.
A sinister grin passed over Morgan's face. Of a sudden he felt
diabolical. Others might respect that sanctuary, but not he! He was
n't crazy with sentiment. A hunter, he! He 'd hunt it over the
legions of dead Fitzpauls. He 'd hunt it over Reynardine's grave, by
God! How would she like that? Eh? He 'd kill that fox if he had to
run it blind and throttle it with his bare hands.
"I 'll get you," he laughed.
The fox gathered itself for a last effort. He saw the whirl of its
brush, saw it leap, disappear....
Morgan steadied his hunter for an instant. Suddenly gave it reins and
spurs. Looked up, as it flew toward the wall.
From his height he could see within and his hair rose in a dreadful
chill. For standing there was a white figure, with a book in her hand.
Against the white dress the red fox cowered. The face was the face of
Reynardine. The years were the years of Reynardine. The eyes were the
eyes of Reynardine, black, deep, dilated with fear.
"Reynardine! Reynardine!" A cry of terror broke from him.
An immense panic seized him, and his hands checked the horse as it rose
to the jump--a savage jerk on curb and snaffle. The gray was already
in the air. Its hind legs came down uncertain. Its great bulk fell
backward. Fear flooded him like cold water. In an instant he knew his
neck would be broken like a dry twig. Christ! There it went! Snap!