Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



Not a solitary straggler on the outskirts, not a shirking 

 puppy courting favour and earning displeasure at the 

 Master's heels. Every single hound is in covert; 

 swallowed up in the silence a silence broken only by 

 the snapping of twigs as the invaders push on; on, 

 onwards they press until even the crackle of the under- 

 growth is hushed by distance and is soon lost in that 

 vast silence. 



Dairymaid whimpers. Resolute answers her. Ven- 

 geance confirms it. Dairymaid's note of conviction is 

 drowned in a chorus : a chorus swelling to a crashing 

 crescendo. A horn sounds; its merry echoes shattering 

 the stillness of the tree-tops. Excitement reigns in the 

 heart of the wood; excitement grows among the riders 

 clustered on the narrow road, but neither excitement is 

 half so intense as that which takes possession of a little 

 old man on foot. He dances on a bank-top with sheer 

 joy, calling to all and sundry : "I knew he was in 

 it, I told * himself ', so I did. Oh ! That he may get 

 him ! The robber ! An' he with the best hen about 

 the place for his breakfast, no less ! " 



There is a general scramble at the gate. The loose 

 gravel of the boreen is scattered to the grass margin 

 or crushed underfoot by the grind of restive hooves. 

 Inside the gate the path is firm, though pitted and 

 scarred by the tracks of the lumber- carts. Further on, 

 great gnarled roots have burst their way through its 

 surface, as though the mighty trees were showing their 

 scorn of man and were rebellious of his desecrating 

 intrusion. On in the dim half-light a majestic Scotch 

 fir lies a victim to the woodman's saw. As one nears it 



46 



