The woods were ringing with their
music, and the sound of the chase swung to and fro, from ridge to
ridge. Now I could hear the crashing of the underbrush.
Weston fired. The report rattled from hill to hill.
My own gun sprang to the shoulder, but it was too late. The fox,
seeing me, veered down the slope, and swept on to safety or to death,
for six more anxious hunters were watching for him somewhere in those
woods.
The dogs swept by, old Captain as ever leading, with Betsy at his
haunches and Mike and Major neck and neck behind.
I watched for little Colonel. A minute passed and he did not come.
Poor puppy! He had learned that to live was to suffer. Somewhere in
these woods he must be lying, resting those ponderous paws and licking
his bloody flanks.
The hollow was alive with the bay of dogs; the ridges were ringing with
the echoes of a gunshot; but above them all I heard a plaintive wail
over there in the charcoal clearing. I called for Weston and I got no
answer, only the cry of the little hound.
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