Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



stream. Startlingly, one recognises a familiar horse. 

 There he is, three fields away, charging up the opposite 

 hill, running on, like the game creature he is, right 

 behind hounds. Reins flapping with a careless rhythm 

 round his shoulders and neck, stirrups bouncing with 

 spasmodic treachery, eager to free themselves, and here, 

 a long way behind, is the young fool who should be on 

 his back controlling those rebellious leathers. 



To catch the horse is the primary impulse, and 

 although running after him is sheer mirage-chasing, 

 still nothing can be gained by standing alone in the 

 heart of the Irish countryside. Out on the left, the 

 last of the riders are pounding along, and since the 

 moving object on foot is evidently not a hospital case, 

 they keep pounding along; pillion-riding being unheard 

 of in the hunting field. 



Trudging forlornly in the wake of the disappearing 

 hunt one has ample opportunity for an agonizing analysis 

 of past happenings and for appalling speculations in 

 grim forebodings of the future. Vividly, one remembers 

 that confident charge at the wall horse going for his 

 work so gallantly, even if a little too eagerly not sure 

 of what happened then. Must have hit the wall or 

 something then that horrible moment when he seemed 

 to crumple up and everything went hazy : wet ground, 

 horse gone. Heaven alone knows where he is now. 

 Great old Challenger ! He would have tried it had it 

 been a house gable ! Both knees are probably ruined. 

 Stirrups have fought free of holders and are lost in 

 some field. Reins are surely over his head by now and 

 are trampled and torn to uselessness. If he went with 



62 



