the air of that perfect Spring afternoon as it came to one galloping,
and the thought of a great run, were together like some old rare wine.
Our faces now were to another valley, large fields led down to it,
with easy hedges, at the bottom of it a bright blue stream went
singing and a rambling village smoked, the sunlight on the opposite
slopes danced like a fairy; and all along the top old woods were
frowning, but they dreamed of Spring. The "field" had fallen of and
were far behind and my only human companion was James, my old first
whip, who had a hound's instinct, and a personal animosity against a
fox that even embittered his speech.

Across the valley the fox went as straight as a railway line, and
again we went without a check straight through the woods at the top. I
remember hearing men sing or shout as they walked home from work, and
sometimes children whistled; the sounds came up from the village to
the woods at the top of the valley. After that we saw no more
villages, but valley after valley arose and fell before us as though
we were voyaging some strange and stormy sea, and all the way before
us the fox went dead up-wind like the fabulous Flying Dutchman. There
was no one in sight now but my first whip and me, we had both of us
got on to our second horses as we drew the last covert.

Two or three times we checked in those great lonely valleys beyond the
village, but I began to have inspirations, I felt a strange certainty
within me that this fox was going on straight up-wind till he died or
until night came and we could hunt no longer, so I reversed ordinary
methods and only cast straight ahead and always we picked up the scent
again at once. I believe that this fox was the last one left in the
villa-haunted lands and that he was prepared to leave them for remote
uplands far from men, that if we had come the following day he would