Beyond the memory of Dick Hal, who remembered the home-bringing of two wounded “Church-Town” men after Waterloo, the hounds had met on Feast Days at the Castle. The grounds with their stately terraces and relics of feudal dignity were thrown open for the meet, the protests of old Jenny at the park gate notwithstanding.

Long before the hour appointed a little crowd assembled outside the lodge. Fishermen in blue guernseys were there, miners in their workaday clothes, and a strong force of villagers. It is noteworthy what a motley crowd, from squire to ploughboy, from vigorous youth to crippled old age, will congregate to witness a day’s fox-hunting.

And surely the sight of twenty couple of hounds drawing a patch of gorse in an open and wild country, the suspense that follows the first whimper, the find, the thrilling tally-ho, and the hurry and scurry of the field, is a spectacle as pleasant as it is exhilarating.

Looking out of an upper window of one of the little towers that flanked the gateway was old Jenny Trewheela, blind of one eye, whose sharp tongue was more effective than a fifteen-pounder in defence of her charge. Villagers averred that “her main suction ware vinegar,” and a candid friend had told her so. As the hour approached the crowd began to press too close to the lodge to please her vigilant eye. “Werta shovin’ to? Thee shussen wan of ee come inside the gates till th’ ’ounds ’a gone through. They be Sir Bevil’s orders.”

“Sober, mawther,” said a keen-eyed poacher, “we be all afeeard of ee, and thee dost knaw it; but hows’ever we doan’t want none o’ your winegar. Custna haand round a bit o’ crowse and a drop o’ somethin’ to drink? ’Tes a dry East wind and bra’ an cold.”

“Sauce and imprence! I do knaw thee and the crooked ways of ee, though thee dost skulk behind a honest man,” and with that she banged-to the window.

A few minutes before the village clock chimed the hour, the huntsman, hounds, and whippers-in passed through the gate and along the approach to the inner court, and drew up on the far side of the keep near the old culverin. By ones and twos, gentlemen from the country round, tenant farmers and crofters, rode up to the Castle.

This venerable building in the hundred of Penwith in the parish of Madron had been the seat of the Tresillians from the time of Henry the Second. The Castle is quaintly described in an old survey of Cornwall as “very ancient, strong and fayre and appurtenanced with the necessaries of wood, water, parkes, moors, with the devotion of a rich-furnished chapelle and charitie of almshouses.”

The terrace is still haunted by the squire who fell on the memorable day when the place was held for the King against the Roundheads. The painting in the hall shows the assault on the outer wall, where a lurid glare lights up helm and pike at the narrow breach; for above battlement and turret, clearly outlined, leap tongues of fire from the beacon on the Cairn.

Dents in the granite walls still mark where the cannon-balls struck the building; and it was at that time—I know there are some who dispute the date—that one of the quarterings of the family arms above the entrance was effaced.

Sir Bevil and Lady Tresillian, who were standing on the steps below, gave their guests a hearty welcome. Breakfast was laid in the wainscotted hall, bright with log fires.

Cornish worthies in their gold frames wink at the merry gathering round the table.

Sir Bevil, despite his grey hairs, looks young for his sixty years. Life’s work is stamped on his high-bred features. He looks every inch a soldier. The tanned face and parched skin suggest frontier fighting: the scar on the brow confirms it.

Facing the mullioned window, on Sir Bevil’s right is Squire Tremenheere of Lanover, the hardest rider of the hunt; next him is the Major of the C.C. battery, whose neighbour is the popular member for the Land’s End Division; next him is a shipowner whose vessels are on every sea; the veteran with silvery hair and twinkling eyes has been purser of a tin-mine for nearly half a century; the man with the long black beard is the village doctor, and a kind friend to the poor; below him sit half a score farmers, and a good time they are having.

“This be a good drop o’ zider,” says the weather-beaten crofter who sits facing a portrait of Sir Richard Grenville. “Gos’t home,” said the eldest tenant on the estate, “Tedden no zider: but caal ’en what you like, ’tes a drop of the raal auld stingo.”

The aristocratic old gentleman, tête-à-tête with Lady Elizabeth, is Sir Lopes Carminowe, who knows every gate, gap and fox-earth in Penwith. Need it be said that the little wizened-face man with laughing eyes, whose wit is as dry as the champagne, is the legal adviser of those whom he is tickling with forensic anecdotes? The parson is the recipient of much chaff and banter; but with eyes sparkling under his shaggy brows and in the best of humour he is cutting about him with his sharp-edged tongue to the discomfiture of his assailants. Says Sir Bevil, “The parson reminds me of the Cavalier in the picture who has brought down half a dozen of the enemy and is looking round for more.”

Breakfast over, the gay company passed out of the Castle, mounted their restive horses and rode away to the covert by the lake. The Cairn that overlooked it was covered with pedestrians who, like spectators in a theatre, were waiting for the play to begin. Does any one doubt that the sporting instinct is strong in Englishmen? Observe that poor old man in clean smock-frock and white beaver. This is Dick Hal. He can’t see very well, but he would like to hear the cry of the hounds once more. He began earthstopping the year Bonaparte died at St Helena, and this morning a little child has led him to the Cairn that he might perchance hear the music he loved so well. And it seemed probable, so rarely had the brake been found tenantless, that he and the rest, younger and noisier in their expectation of sport, would not be disappointed.

The cry of the huntsman in the bottoms at once hushes the hum of the crowd. Ears strain to catch the first whimper, and eager eyes search every yard of open ground to view the stealthy movements of a fox. Under the shelter of a boulder, apart from the crowd, sits Jim Roscruge, the old mining pioneer, and near him a man in velveteen coat and sealskin cap who looks the incarnation of vigilance.

Surely we have seen that cheery face before—it’s Andrew the Earthstopper, looking little the worse for his night’s adventures. The leading hounds had come through the brake. “Saams to me,” says Roscruge, “that Nute drawed a bit too quick like. A fox’ll sometimes lie as close as a sittin’ perthridge.” “May be you’re right: but Joe Nute do knaw ’es work, and, lor’, what moosic’s in the voice of un! Harkee! . . . Grand, edna you? Saam time I niver seed the brake drawed blank but wance afore.”

The field began to move slowly to the next cover whilst the hounds ran through some crofts where the furze was thin.

“Wild country this, Tresillian,” said the Major of Sir Bevil’s old battery as they rode along side by side.

“Yes, it’s more or less like this all the way to Dartmoor, heather and gorse on the surface, tin and copper underground. It’s the backbone of the county in more sense than one.”

“And Lyonnesse must be somewhere near?”

“That,” said Sir Bevil, smiling, “is the submerged land between the Land’s End and the Scillies. Scientists, confound ’em, are trying to prove that the sea has covered it since the Creation. What right have they got to meddle with our traditions? They’ll be saying next that the letters[1] on the Men Scryfa—it’s in a croft over that ridge facing us—have been cut out by the action of the weather on the granite.”

“Well, Andrew,” said Sir Bevil as he rode up, “where do you think we may find to-day?”

“I caan’t hardly tell, sir,” said he, keeping pace with the horse; “but at daybreak this morning I balled a fox”—at this Sir Bevil pulled up his horse,—“on that bit o’ soft ground under Ding Dong on the Quoit side, and seys I to missel, me shaver es moast likely kennelled in that bit o’ snug fuzze to the lew side of the stennack.”

“Very well, we will draw that next and drop back to Boswortha if we do not find,” added Sir Bevil as he rode away to give instructions to the huntsman.

“Come ust on, Jim, best foot foremost, or the draw’ll be over afore we get theere.” They gained the crest of a rise overlooking the cover just as the huntsman, who was now afoot with the hounds around him, was about to draw it.

“Wheere ded ee light on they theere prents of the fox, An’rew?”

“Do ee saa thet big bunch o’ rooshes anigh the pool, away ahead of the rock touchin’ the Squire?”

“Iss sure.”

“Well, they’re close handy to un, laystwise I reckin so: ’twas by the furst glim o’ day I seed ’em.”

Below them lay a stretch of marshy ground fed by some bubbling springs. Rills trickled along channels in the peaty ground, sparkling here and there between tussocks of rush and withered grass, losing themselves in a vivid green patch that fringed a chattering trout-stream. On the higher side, nestling under shelter of a craggy ridge, was about an acre of furze with a big dimple in it where yellow blooms lingered.

The scarlet coats of the riders gave a few dashes of warmth to the grey expanse of boulder-strewn moor.

Sir Bevil watched the hounds as they drew up wind, the big chestnut with its pricked ears seeming as intent as his rider. Their shadow lay almost motionless aslant the lichen-covered rock. The working of the pack was easily seen, save where the ground dipped around a pool or boggy growth luxuriated. Flushed by hound or crack of whip, a woodcock rose and dropped in some withes a furlong away. Still there was no sign of the fox, no view holloa, not a whimper. The idler hounds lapped the tempting water, seemingly heedless of the huntsman’s voice.

“I’m afeard o’ my saul ’tes blank, Jim; hounds don’t saam to maake nawthin’ of un.”

“Nawthin’ at all, scent’s gone along wi’ the frost. But don’t ee go and upset yoursel’ about et, ’tes noane of your fault.”

Amongst the members of the hunt, disposed in little groups behind Sir Bevil, the green of the bog and the gleam of the rippling water showing between them, expectation drooped, and the little cares of life that a whimper would have kept to the crupper, seizing their opportunity, began to steal back to their owners.

The doctor’s eyes wandered to the lonely cottage; the shipowner found himself thinking of the fall in freights, the miner of the drop in tin; and even the red-whiskered farmer was wondering whether the ten-score pig hanging by the heels in his outhouse would fetch 4?d. or 5d. a lb. on the next market day.

Suddenly Troubadour, the most reliable hound of the pack, threw up his nose as he whiffed the tainted air.

“He’s got un, Jim. See how eh crosses the line o’ scent see-saw like. ’Pend upon et, ’tes a find.”

The hound now left the edge of the cover near the bog and worked round its upper side. Losing the scent he came back, recovered it, threw his tongue and dashed into the brake.

“Thet’s what I do caal rason in a dog,” whispered Andrew, whilst his restless eyes watched every point of escape for a view of the fox.

In a moment the pack rallied to the trusted voice of Troubadour, and the furze was soon alive with waving sterns.

“What moosic, Jim! Look out, slyboots’ll be gone in a twinklin’.”

“Theere’s the fox staling away along by them theere brembles.”

“I caan’t see un,” said Roscruge. And truly none but a trained eye like Andrew’s, which saw a suspicion of brown here and a tell-tale movement of tangled growth beyond, could mark the course of the sly varmint. It had eluded the gaze of the whippers-in. Grasping the situation, Andrew ran to where he last saw the fox and gave a loud tally-ho.

Then all was stir: the field seemed electrified. Shipowner, miner, farmer, ay and squire, parson, soldier and whipper-in, each forgot his worries—for who has none?—and black care lay in the wake of the hunt.

“Lor’, how they do race,” said Andrew as the hounds, with a burst of music, streamed across the heather. “The fox is maakin’ for cleff. Desperate plaace thet; but as luck will have et the tide is out.” The hunt was now lost to view, but with his hand raised to shade his eyes he kept looking towards the Galver. . . .

“They’re crossin’ the sky line. Do ee see ’em, Jim?”

“Iss, and ef I baan’t mistaken, the white hoss es laast as usual.”

Tregellas had been busy in the cattle-shed since early morning, and now, having put a double feed in the troughs and filled the racks with sweet-smelling hay, was about to leave work and put on his Sunday-best, after the custom of Feast Day, that his appearance might do credit to his side of the parish when he sauntered past the critical eyes of the girls of Churchtown.

Just then Driver, who had been curled up in the straw dreaming of summer days amongst the moorland cattle, pricked his ears, rose to his feet, jumped the half-door, and barked furiously.

“What’s thet?” said Tregellas as the music of the pack awoke the echoes of the cliffs. “Why ’tes the hounds in full cry sure ’nuff.” Out of the byre he rushed and climbed the turf rick near the pig’s crow, hoping to get a view of the hunt. The passing chase was one of the few excitements of his dull life; and next to a sly glance at the girl of his heart the sight of a fox before hounds was what he loved most.

His eager eyes searched the rugged hillside and swept the open sward lying between it and the cliff. A sea-gull skimming its pinnacled edge drew his gaze that way. It was only for an instant; yet when he looked round again, the fox with an easy stride was crossing the springy turf where in summer thrift blooms, and discovering dips in the ground where human eye found none, with lithe movement was making for his earth near the foot of the cliffs. “Lor’, what a beety! how eh do move over the ground that steelthy like! What a broosh! Wonder ef he’s the saame varmint as killed the auld gander.”

Thrice before the fox had stood before hounds, and the last time he had but narrowly escaped with his life. Less than a year ago, it was in the month of March, they had found him on the sunny cliffs where Lamorna overlooks the ocean, and the great run he gave that day from sea to sea is still vivid in the memory of the hunt.

The Fox.      
This morning dawn had surprised him miles away from his rocky stronghold. For hours before daybreak he had lain in wait with glowing eyes under the shelter of some rustling sedge that grew amidst the waters of a pool, for wildfowl. His listening ears caught the swish of their tantalising wingbeats as skein after skein circled above his lurking-place, but he had awaited in vain the splash of widgeon or teal on the lane of water he had opened in the thin ice as he swam to his “islet” ambush. Hunger and expectation had kept him there too long and, in the grey light that had quenched the green fires of his eyes, chilled and famished he had stolen away to the near brake, and under its thickest furze-bush shunned those hateful rays that jewelled the frosted spines above his lair and gilded the crags between him and his earth.

Scarcely had he curled himself up before the tread of human steps made him cock his ears, and when the Earthstopper bent over his clean-cut footprints the ominous silence had brought him to his feet. But as the footsteps died away he had settled himself down again, and it was out of a deep sleep that the warning voice of Troubadour had roused him. Once more, like an outlaw, he was driven forth under the eye of the wintry sun with hue and cry behind him, conscious that his safety lay in his own cunning and endurance and the stout heart that had carried him through before.

As he crosses the sward there is nothing hurried in his stealthy movements, despite the clamour in his ears. He is not sure that his earth is open—more than once he had found it closed—so he is husbanding his strength, and, if need be, every bit of it will be doled out under the direction of his vulpine brain in the attempt to outwit his enemies. Some fifteen feet from the cliff a slab of rock—outcrop of the granite formation beneath—brings back to his memory a ruse that the old vixen had taught him, when one August day at sundown she anxiously led her playful litter up to the great world overlooking their rocky nursery. This he at once decides to put into practice.

So to the amazement of the open-mouthed Tregellas he crosses and recrosses the rock as he had seen her do, hoping thereby at least to check his pursuers, if not to foil them altogether.

Leaving the tangled lines of scent for the hounds to unravel, he, by a single leap, reaches the verge of the cliff and for an instant clings to its dizzy edge as if to listen to the swelling cry, for his mask is turned that way. Then, gathering himself for a spring, with a whisk of his brush he is gone. This was too much for the spellbound Tregellas, good Methodist though he was: “Well, I’m dommed, that taakes the fuggan.”

The leading hounds were breaking through the furze at the foot of the hill, their voices ringing like silver bells.

Flashing across the open they checked at the rock, but only for a moment, and then, like an impetuous stream, poured down the cliff. Thither Tregellas, loosing the dog he had been holding, ran at the top of his speed and looked over. The scene below stirred his Celtic blood. The pack, with the fox a furlong ahead, was racing along the narrow beach, till, reaching a jutting point, pursued and pursuers took to the water and, skirting the rocks, swam out of his sight.

Knowing the line the fox would probably take, Tregellas, with the fever of the chase in his veins, climbed the steep hill leading to the Deadman and, though he bruised his knees through his corduroys, gained at length the topmost stone of the cairn that crowned it.

“Aal for nawthin’,” he gasped as he overlooked the stretch of silent moor beneath him. The only sound of the hunt was the distant thud of hoofs where the “field” galloped along the coast road. Yet with quick, restless eyes he swept the waste as from that very eyry a sparrow-hawk was wont to do, watchful for the slightest sign. The echo of the horn had kept hope alive, faint though it was, but now he has seen something which rivets his gaze.

He is looking towards the lower side of the moor, over the shoulder of which lies the sea, fringed with surf where it frets the black precipice of a headland. He is watching a bird that flies close to the stunted furze. The white of its plumage gleams as the sun catches it. Threading the sinuous lanes between the bushes, appearing at the distance almost like the shadow of the overhanging magpie, is the hunted game; and though Tregellas cannot hear the chattering of the bird, he knows that it is mobbing the fox whose mask is set in the direction of Deadman. As his form comes well in view Tregellas fancies that his stride is perhaps not quite so easy as when he swung so lithely across the turf, and it may be he was shaken by those terrible leaps adown the jagged rocks where a whipper-in, a coastguard, and a truant schoolboy are at this moment attending to two crippled hounds. “Es eh failin’ a bit, do ee think, ’Gellas?” “Caan’t hardly tell,” said he, answering the question put to himself. And then the hounds heave in view. At what a pace they sweep over the waste, how silently they are running! With anxious eyes he follows them as they cross the moor above. “Dear life, they’re niver headin’ for Deadman, are ’em? Iss . . . iss . . . wonder ef An’rew stopped the eearth. . . . Hooray!” for standing on tip-toe he saw the blurred pack swerve near the heart of the haunted moor as though at that point the fox had been headed.

“I knowed ee raather die in th’ open nor go to ground in that wisht auld plaace.”

Then the field at full gallop passed before his gaze. “Lor’ a mercy, passon’s bin and falled into the bog,” and he laughed as only a yokel can laugh.

Tregellas lingered until the desolate waste swallowed up the hindmost of the field; the circling flight of a snipe being the only sign that the hunt had swept across the moor.

The stout fox held bravely on; but the pack, racing for blood, with hardly a check, kept lessening his lead as moor and croft were left behind.

With what a crash of music they dashed through the Forest Rocks and through the belt of pines to the open heath beyond. Though death was ringing in his ears there was the gallant fox struggling gamely forward. Racing from scent to view they pulled him down on the dead bracken below the now deserted cairn.

The huntsman, Squire Tremenheere and Sir Bevil close behind him, galloped up in time to rescue the carcass from the ravenous pack. The who-whoop was heard by the parson as he urged his grey mare, mud to the girths, between the pine boles. To him, when he came up, Sir Bevil handed the mask; the brush he had presented to the Squire.

Late the same night the parson sat in his study recording the incidents of the chase and, despite the strains of “Trelawny” which reached his ears from the “One and All” hard by, where Tregellas and his friends were making merry, kept true to the line of the fox and with graphic touches described the run.

Closing the book, he returned it to the shelf between the door and the pegs, where his hunting-cap hung. Then for the first time that season he took a map from its tin case and spread it on the table. It was a map of West Penwith, and was crossed by lines in all directions, reminding one of threads of dodder on a furze-bush. Those thin red lines represented the best runs of the hounds during the five and thirty years he had followed them. Having put on his spectacles, he dipped the fine-pointed nib in the ink and, starting from near the pool under Ding Dong, traced the run to the adit at the foot of the cliffs. Why did he pause there, why not let the pen skirt the coast and the headland and cross the moor to Deadman?

See! there is another red line—a line that starts at Lamorna Cliffs—which ends at the adit, and as his eye wandered along the converging tracks he was wondering whether the fox which gave that great run from sea to sea was the one whose death he had just recorded. That is why his hand dwelt and why he raised his questioning eyes to the wall facing him.

He could not be sure, and the fixed grin on the fox’s mask hanging between the cap and hunting-crop did not help him.
 
Riolabran Cunoval fil.