At last the looked-for day—the third of November—arrived, and fortunately it broke fine, without sign of mist or fog. Not that any weather, however bad, would have kept away the keen men who from all the parishes around were making towards Sancreed. From St Levan, Sennen, Morvah, Madron, Zennor, Paul, Gulval, they came in goodly numbers, to say nothing of Buryan and St Just, till not only the town-place—the square in front of the Bird-in-hand—but also the roadway that skirts the high church-yard wall were filled with a more excited throng than ever gathered there in olden days to witness a miracle play.
By the dial on the church-porch it was ten o’clock when Digory Strout, accompanied by two friends, drove down the “Beacon” road into the town-place. He raised his black billycock hat and stood bareheaded for a moment, in acknowledgment of the cheers of his supporters. He was well dressed; and his brown velvet waistcoat emphasised the rich yellow of the watch-chain, made out of the first nuggets he had found in his creek. He wore a big moustache, otherwise he was clean-shaven, save for the tuft of hair on his under lip, which, with his sallow complexion, gave him a far-travelled look. Everyone but Farmer Pendre was now present, and whilst men were speculating why he was so late, the penetrating notes of a horn were heard above the din, and shortly after the crowd fell back on either side as his tandem dashed up the road into the Square.
Pendre, whose Sunday-best suit was set off by a brand-new white hat and crimson neck-tie, created a favourable impression by the smart way he handled the two chestnuts; but it was the fawn-coloured greyhound, arrayed in a green coat on which fifteen balls had been worked in yellow silk, that fixed the gaze of the St Just men. He carried himself as if conscious that all eyes were on him, and no one could deny that he was a grand dog, or that his head, perfectly set as it was on his graceful neck, was a collection of good points.
The rousing cheer that rose from the throats of the Buryan men was tauntingly answered by the St Just men crowding the upper half of the Square; but at the moment when things threatened a fray, the venerable parson, who had been standing under the trees near his gate, walked across between the hostile ranks, and shook hands with each of the owners. This well-timed act was not without its sobering effect on the crowd; but it was remarked that Strout and Pendre did not exchange any form of greeting, though they stood side by side on the broad granite flagstone before the inn door.
No time was lost in making the necessary arrangements. Five men were chosen on each side to find a hare, and a great compliment it was deemed to be one of them. The places of honour at the ends of the line were assigned to Matthey Thomas of St Just Churchtown and Bethias Wallace of Buryan. The ten were driven to Chapel Cairn Brea; the slipper followed with the greyhounds; and close behind rode Mr Heber, the well-known judge, who had come straight from the great meeting at Amesbury. It had been decided to search Cairn Brea, Bartinney, Caer Bran, and the Beacon, in the order named, and a more picturesque setting for the day’s sport could not have been chosen. Nowhere has nature fixed more graceful curves against the sky than those presented by the undulating outline of these last four of the Cornish heights. Let the reader imagine four cones, with bases wide for their height, forming a row parallel to the length of a table on which they are placed. He will then have a rude representation in miniature of the conformation of the country, washed on three sides by the sea, which the hills overlook.
The top of Bartinney was soon crowded with spectators, so too were the old earthworks on Caer Bran, and a big crowd followed the beaters. These were extended in a line on the western slope of Cairn Brea, and working the ground in front of them as they advanced up the hill was Ben Corin’s harrier Tuneful, a dog reputed to have the best nose in the nine parishes. The slipper held the greyhounds in a leash in the middle of the line, and the judge rode a little on one side to the rear. Of the crowd on Bartinney that eagerly awaited their appearance on the hill-crest, Parson Grose was perhaps the only one who turned his thoughts from the sport to scan the tableland, so rich in vestiges of the past, which lay spread out like a map some four hundred feet below. To him it was the forlorn refuge of the ancient Celt, a scene of the early Church’s activity, a land of legend and romance. The old antiquary’s eyes wandered from the grey towers of the medi?val churches to the site of holy well and ruined baptistery, wayside cross and sanctuary, monolith and stone circle, cromlech and cave-dwelling. Once indeed he raised his eyes from the narrow promontory to the far western horizon, where a broken line, dimly discernible, marked the position of the Isles of Scilly. But his attention was soon recalled by a murmur that ran through the crowd gathered round Digory, at the sight of the judge on horseback and the beaters as they showed on the skyline before descending the eastern slope. Stunted furze and heather, with here and there a patch of golden bracken, clothe the sides of the hills, and the Lidden’s pool, encircled by rushes and sere grasses, gleams in the trough below them. On reaching the sheet of water the St Just men take to the left, the Buryan men to the right, and with the latter go the slipper, in charge of the dogs, and the judge. Scarcely have they separated when Bethias ‘pricks’ a hare; again its track is seen by a Buryan man, and simultaneously on the other side of the pool the harrier begins to feather on a line, and once she throws her tongue. Every clump of rushes, every patch of coarse grass, is carefully searched; and just as every one begins to fear that the hare has passed over the hill, from the extreme left of the St Just line comes the almost whispered exclamation, “See-ho!” It is Matthey Thomas who has viewed the hare where she sits some twenty yards ahead, and instantly withdrawn his gaze.
Chapel St Uny Well. [Face page 156.
The line stops; the judge, slipper, and dogs come round, pass through the excited crowd, and join Matthey, who points out the hare, or rather the spot where she is lying, for he alone can see her. He is then directed to start her, and with him go the judge and the slipper. When they are within five yards of the form, out goes the little Jack, his head set in the direction of Bartinney. The greyhounds strain at the leash, dragging the slipper with them, but not until the hare has forty yards’ start does the judge give the word to loose them. Like arrows released from the bow, they are off, and every eye is on them. Seldom if ever has a more exciting course been witnessed.
At first the greyhounds gain on the hare, but the rising ground to which he is leading them is in his favour, for there at almost every bound his pursuers sink into the stunted furze skirting the narrow “run” he knows so well.
Near the top of the hill better foothold enables them to hold their own, but they do not regain an inch of the ground they have lost. At amazing speed the hare passes the crowd on Bartinney a good thirty yards ahead of the greyhounds, and takes to the eastern slope. So far not a point has been scored by either dog, but near the foot of the hill Fleetfoot turns the hare, and then it looks as though Beeswing must kill. Scarcely ten yards separate greyhound and hare as they sweep across the two furlongs of flat ground that runs up to the moorland farm over which the Jack has so often wandered. A sudden turn lets in Fleetfoot, and the greyhounds are dead level, with the hare just in front of them, when a hundred yards from the gate for which he is heading. Surely he will never reach it . . . yes, for the greyhounds are jumping the gate as he passes underneath, and even as they are in mid-air he doubles back under it and follows the cattle-track skirting the boundary-wall of the farm. When the dogs view him again, he is at least thirty yards to the good once more, and heading for Caer Bran. Gradually they reduce his lead, and beyond an open stretch of turf, where, to the surprise of the judge, Beeswing had given Fleetfoot the go-by, points are scored by both dogs; and then a wilderness of pits and mounds receives the hare just in time to save him from Beeswing’s jaws. At headlong speed he threads this maze just in front of the greyhounds, making the air hum as he dashes along the rough ways.
On issuing from it the hare turns suddenly to the left, and skirts some furze-bushes that screen him from the gaze of the dogs. See! they have lost him, but the high springs they are taking will enable them t............