THE QUAXTOCKS. 245 



loudly expressed that not he, but some lighter and more gallop- 

 ing deer, maybe found. So far, wishes are to be realised. Ten 

 minutes has not elapsed ere note of hound and horn proclaim 

 a find ; and almost at once there issues a flyiug deer, nimble of 

 limb and light of body, breaking upwards in the desired direc- 

 tion of the Forest. He cannot quite face a knot of a hundred 

 horsemen; so rounding the old ruined mansion of Lydcote Hall 

 (the birthplace of Amy Ilobsart) he again makes his point over 

 the enclosures beyond. For a long distance he can be seen 

 bounding over the fields, leaving each huge wall and bank easily 

 behind. " He's going straight for the Moor, with only one little 

 covert before him ! " " Surely we must ride over the Forest 

 to-day ! " And hope and aspirations, long suppressed and pent 

 up, make men almost quiver in their saddles. Twenty minutes 

 waiting fcr hounds may be nothing in staghunting. It would 

 kill us at Crick or the Coplow. To some at least it seems an 

 age noiv, before Arthur appears with the scanty remnant pack 

 (not more than eleven couple in all) — the fierce old veterans of 

 years of successful chase, small in number now, but giants in 

 prowess ; strong as mastiffs, tenacious as bulldogs, and staunch 

 as bloodhounds. 



Work has given them back all the vigour wasted in their long- 

 confinement ; and they show out to-day in far superior form 

 to that of the earlier hunting. They go into the scent with a 

 rush and determination that I have not seen with the deer 

 before ; and they own it — not with a noisy cry, but with a 

 note that, if subdued and under the breath, is fiercely earnest. 

 Through a few inclosures, and then into the wooded basin of 

 Whaddifell, already studded round with groups, who according 

 to their custom, have, some minutes ago, hurried off to a point. 

 Not one stag, but two (a panting rustic avers there were three) 

 have entered the wood — Now the tale becomes pitiful, and tear- 

 fully we ask for sympathy. A stag had gone on over Exmoor, 

 — before him nothing of refuge within a dozen miles, save a pass- 

 ing bath in Badgworthy Water. Hounds are at fault for a 

 minute or two — time enough for at least a score of proffered 



