38 The Rifle and Hound in Ceylon. 



thorough knowledge of the country at once tells the 

 huntsman of their destination, and away he goes. 



He tightens his belt by a hole, and steadily he starts 

 at a long, swinging trot, having made up his mind for 

 a day of it. Over hills and valleys, through tangled 

 and pathless forests, but all well known to him, steady 

 he goes at the same pace on the level, easy through the 

 bogs and up the hills, extra steam down hill, and stop- 

 ping for a moment to listen for the hounds on every 

 elevated spot. At length he heai-s them ! No, it was 

 a bird. Again he fancies that he hears a distant sound 

 — was it the wind? No; there it is — it is old Smut's 

 voice — he is at bay ! Yoick to him ! he shouts till his 

 lungs are wellnigh cracked, and through thorns and 

 jungles, bogs and ravines, he rushes toward the wel- 

 come sound. Thick-tangled bushes armed with a 

 thousand hooked thorns suddenly arrest his course ; it 

 is the thick fringe of underwood that borders every 

 forest ;— : the open plain is within a few yards of him. 

 The hounds in a mad chorus are at bay, and the 

 woods ring again with the cheering sound. Nothing 

 can stop him now — thorns, or clothes, or flesh must 

 go — something must give way as he bursts through 

 them and stands upon the plain. 



There they are in that deep pool formed by the river 

 as it sweeps round the rock. A buck ! a noble fellow ! 

 Now he charges at the hounds, and strikes the foremos" 

 beneath the water with his fore-feet ; up they come 

 again to the surface — they hear their master's well- 

 known shout — they look round and see his welcome 

 figure on the steep bank. Another moment, a tre- 

 mendous splash, and he is among his hounds, and all 

 are swimming toward their noble game. At them he 



