130 The Chase 



men are able to come up ; the rest are far behind, 

 in bowery hollows, deep dingles, or briery thickets : 

 their steeds foundered, their garments torn, they 

 could no longer keep up with the chase, which is 

 again far out of sight, for the noble stag has still 

 strength enough to keep ahead of his pursuers. 

 Slower, at longer intervals, the stems of the trees 

 are passed ; for we are now standing at the head 

 of a long forest avenue, up which the wearied chase 

 is approaching. The former swift flight of the poor 

 stag is now changed into a slow, heavy trot, as if it 

 were a pain to him to drag one leg before another. 

 There are but three hounds in sight out of all the 

 number that started in pursuit when the day was in 

 its prime. Only one solitary horseman has been 

 able to keep up with these hounds, and he seems 

 to rock and reel from fatigue in his saddle like a 

 drunkard, while his horse is ready to founder at 

 every step. You hear the call of a solitary horn 

 somewhere in the distance, telling that another 

 hunter is still on the track, though far, far behind. . . . 

 But see a couple of the strongest hounds have 

 reached the exhausted stag ; they have scarcely 

 strength enough left to tug at his throat, nor has 

 the noble animal power to butt at them with his 

 antlers, both breathing alike heavily. At length 

 the hunter alights ; he plunges the blade of his 

 buck-handled knife into the throat of the dying 

 stag, and, sounding three blasts on his horn, called 

 in the language of the chase the " death mot," the 

 hunt is ended. 



Thomas Miller. 



