THE BRAUXSTON GALLOP OF THE PYTCHLEY. 313 



The ground was again firm, now the slope was downwards, and 

 horses recovered half their wind. Two light fences next ensued, 

 and hounds could be readily reached. Mr. Adamthwaite at 

 least was with them. Arbury is another ragged hill close by. 

 Here the line crossed that of Lord Willoughby's second fox of 

 Thursday previous (as his lordship was here to see). And from 

 this moment the point of the present run was virtually identical 

 with the other. Hounds gained a little on the plantation top ; 

 but Mr. Logan and Mr. Fabling were not a hundred } r ards 

 behind them as they rode down a second, and final, plough to 

 the lane beneath. Had they crossed the lane at once to the 

 music ahead, they would, I cannot but fancy, have ridden a 

 line of gates in direct pursuit, across the unjumpable Fawsley 

 Lordship. But a strong party of forward riders (headed by the 

 two whips, Mr. Goodman, Major Riddell, and Mr. Craven, I 

 believe), galloping parallel down the wheatland, caught sight 

 of hounds veering Fawslej^-wards ; and, in duty bound, held 

 the vanguard along the bridle path in that direction. They 

 lost not a turn, and they loitered not by the way. But the 

 ladies were now running for blood — and beaten horses could 

 only lose ground o'er each rolling pasture. The pack left 

 Fawsley a quarter of a mile to the east ; and their followers all 

 that distance to the bad as they reached the spinney of Church 

 Charwelton (36 minutes — and six miles by crow-fly). The 

 yellow fox would have struggled another mile ; but the gallopers 

 were round before him — and he turned back among the pack 

 to die (44 minutes to his death). 



The above is but the view of one man — and of one man, 

 among many, intent upon a task that beat them all, viz., dis- 

 tinctly to live with hounds from start to finish. The backs of 

 men hurrying are not easy to decipher — though the accident of 

 a lead at a big place, a laugh or a merry word, a groan of 

 sympathy or a murmur of glad co-operation — any of these are 

 signs and symptoms of common object, of joint and joyous 

 feeling, that cannot but stamp themselves on a narrator's mind. 

 There were quite as many others, as forward as most who 



