not have been there, and that we just happened to hit off his journey.

Evening began to descend upon the valleys, still the hounds drifted
on, like the lazy but unresting shadows of clouds upon a summer's day,
we heard a shepherd calling to his dog, we saw two maidens move
towards a hidden farm, one of them singing softly; no other sounds,
but ours, disturbed the leisure and the loneliness of haunts that
seemed not yet to have known the inventions of steam and gun-powder
(even as China, they say, in some of her further mountains does not
yet know that she has fought Japan).

And now the day and our horses were wearing out, but that resolute fox
held on. I began to work out the run and to wonder where we were. The
last landmark I had ever seen before must have been over five miles
back and from there to the start was at least ten miles more. If only
we could kill! Then the sun set. I wondered what chance we had of
killing our fox. I looked at James' face as he rode beside me. He did
not seem to have lost any confidence yet his horse was as tired as
mine. It was a good clear twilight and the scent was as strong as
ever, and the fences were easy enough, but those valleys were terribly
trying and they still rolled on and on. It looked as if the light
would outlast all possible endurance both of the fox and the horses,
if the scent held good and he did not go to ground, otherwise night
would end it. For long we had seen no houses and no roads, only chalk
slopes with the twilight on them, and here and there some sheep, and
scattered copses darkening in the evening. At some moment I seemed to
realise all at once that the light was spent and that darkness was
hovering, I looked at James, he was solemnly shaking his head.
Suddenly in a little wooded valley we saw climb over the oaks the
red-brown gables of a queer old house, at that instant I saw the fox