THE GRAVE OF THE SILENT HUNTER. 197 



and that ■warm haven ; then it is that conscience speaks 

 through the downcast life, and we are forced to realize the 

 brtual savagery of this miscalled "sport;" we have a fore- 

 taste of the aches and pains of the poor animals we have been 

 chasing through the deep snow all day, already in our own 

 chafed and suffering limbs, with the sure knowledge that the 

 fruition is not yet, but must come when we rise sore, stiff and 

 shivering, from, perhaps, a frozen couch in the morning. Ah, 

 how the weary miles do stretch ! It is in vain that a few 

 spasmodic notes are sounded upon the curled bugle at our 

 side ; the echoes take on such stunning reverberations amongst 

 the bare cliffs, that we are awed into silence ! How many 

 vows against cruelty to animals, against the indulgence of 

 such tiger-passions, are muttered as our despair gathers with 

 exhaustion. The moon wheels up her glittering disk, and 

 at another time we should have been wild with delight to 

 watch the glory of the shine her coming lays along the spark- 

 ling earth, and through the dark armed trees ; but now, alas I 

 it only taunts with its splendor ; it cannot make the way 

 more short ! On, on we plunge ; the miles grow longer, and 

 the noble horse begins to stagger beneath his double load, 

 and then the shuddering apprehension comes that he may 

 give out, and leave us to trudge the live-long night through 

 the snow to keep from freezing. If the fatal sleep overtake 

 us, we must lie down and die, with our poor horse for a pillow, 

 and the filmed eyes of the noble buck we slew fixed in a stonied 

 gaze upon our own as they are glazed by the cold wind. Mad- 

 dened by such horrid images, and nerved by despair, we raise 

 the bugle to our stiffened lips once more ; loud, long and high 

 the peal rings out, shrill as a death-cry. My sagacious horse 

 has stopped of his own accord, holding his breath, while with 

 pricked ears he listens. Hark ! that faint distant sound ! Is 

 it echo ! He stamps his foot with an impatient neigh, and 

 with blazing eyes and erect crest springs forward. No more 

 staggering now, — fatigue is gone ; it requires all my exhausted 



