192 Cross Country with Horse and Hound 



him on the way to your coop. There is something of 

 retribution in his being killed. On the other hand, I shall 

 never recall without a shudder the death of the first hind 

 I saw taken by the Devon and Somerset staghounds. 



She had given us a glorious run of fourteen or fifteen 

 miles to Bristol Channel, to which waters her instinct had 

 led her as the best way of escape from her pursuers. When 

 we arrived on the coast, at the point where the hind 

 had jumped over a steep precipice and taken to the sea, there 

 was a heavy fog resting on the waters, and the chase 

 seemed ended. 



Presently, however, the fog lifted, and there, standing on 

 a rock a quarter of a mile or more to sea, was the hind, 

 the most beautiful picture I ever beheld. Over her hung 

 a canopy of mist; the surf of an incoming tide was break- 

 ing into the whitest foam at her feet. Steadily the tide 

 crept up on the rock where she stood, every succeeding 

 breaker increasing the depth of water about her. There 

 she stood like a stranded mariner, awaiting the death that 

 must ultimately overtake her. She began to look long- 

 ingly toward the shore and the frowning peaks of the 

 Quantock Hills, her home, to which she was never to 

 return. For a time her attention was called to the passing 

 of a ship not a quarter of a mile from where she stood, 

 curiosity for a moment absorbing her as she watched it 

 with forgetful interest. What a picture! More than an 

 hour we waited and watched, during which time the 

 hounds were taken out of sight. It was hoped she would 

 come to shore and make for the hills; but still she lingered, 

 with the incoming tide rising all about her, and huntsmen 



