1 82 STAG-HUNTING ON EXMOOR. 



SO many deer have perished. But what is this? Hounds 

 are divided, and bring two lines down to the water 

 about eighty yards apart. Arthur's eyes are on the 

 ground. "Doubling toad," he says, "she's come 

 down here and doubled back, and come down again 

 higher up. These be the tail hounds here; they others 

 have cast themselves forward and hit her beyond." 

 He trots quickly up to "they others," but has hardly 

 reached them when the sporting farmer, who is stand- 

 ing at the spot which Arthur has just left, gives a 

 stentorian tally. The hind has just come down the 

 water in front of him, screened from the sight of all 

 others by the thick growth on the bank, but detected 

 through an opening by his keen eye. The pack is 

 at her in a moment. We have got her at last. Not 

 a bit. She bounds up the precipitous hill on the 

 other side, seemingly as fresh as paint, and disappears. 

 The farmer is half inclined to fear he has tallied a fresh 

 hind, and as we scramble up after the hounds we too 

 are not without a similar dread. At the top we find 

 the whip (Lord knows how he got there !) in a state of 

 feverish anxiety. "Another hind came up not two 

 minutes agone," he says, " close where this one passed. 

 'Tis a chance now if they don't change." So on again, 

 not without misgiving, for another mile through thick 



