78 A MONTH IN THE FORESTS OF FRANCE. 



limieTy that neither wolf nor boar could be anywhere 

 near, when our little pack were in full cry — and a 

 jolly good cry too. Right or wrong, scent or no scent, 

 French hounds always make a row, and they have 

 twice the tongue, in strength and repetition, of an 

 English foxhound. The men in blouses, with eager 

 faces, ran up the rides in all directions, and stationed 

 themselves like spring- guns, to go off at anything that 

 ran against them — an occasional gun exploding by 

 accident, and the ball or slug out of it whistling close 

 to your ear. The gentlemen listened, apparently in 

 doubt as to whether the hounds were running anything 

 or nothino- ! The horns were all silent, and not a cheer 

 was heard ; still, allowing for a vast deal of babbling, 

 the cry seemed to me to be so continuous and regular 

 in its varying direction, that I felt convinced the 

 hounds were in chase of something alive, 



" Well," I exclaimed to Jules d'Anchald, whom I 

 met in a ride ; " it may be a rabbit or it may be a boar ; 

 what is it ? " 



" I don't know ; probably a hare." 



" I don't think so," I said; " it's something more;" 

 so, giving dear Coco his head, I galloped up a ride, 

 with my ear on the hounds and which way they were 

 coming ; when, on finding a narrow path which ap- 

 peared to be sufficiently untenanted to afford me space 



