92 A MONTH IN THE FORESTS OF FRANCE. 



coming to me, — when I say "the cry," I mean the 

 least noisy portion of the hounds, those really at work 

 and driving a scent, — so, gun in hand, with a ball in 

 one barrel and a cartridge in the other, to suit either 

 wolf and roe-deer, or boar, I stood still and slightly 

 screened from view. The animal, however, whatever 

 it was, had passed before I reached the spot, and 

 a young English dog called " Corbeau" came at the 

 head, with the other English foxhounds all well up, 

 but the old steady bitches evidently in doubt as to 

 whether they were doing right or wrong ; and by that 

 momentary glance I knew they could not be on a 

 fox. Oh, what a rattling cheer and hallo, backed 

 by my horn, I gave them ; and how the old foxhound 

 bitches cheered up as I cheered them on ! — they had 

 never heard the well-loved shout since they had left 

 old England — and what fun it occasioned elsewhere ! 

 Jules and Maurice were not far off when my stirring 

 shriek reached them — nothing cheering in it for their 

 kind hearts ; up they came, crashing through the 

 copsewood, white as sheets, never having heard that 

 cry before. 



" My God ! what has happened to you ? " 



" Happened to me ? Nothing." 



" What did you shriek so terribly for ? " 



" Shriek ! I cheered the hounds ! " 



