The hounds stormed on through the hills, running hard across the
frequent boggy tracts, more slowly, and with searchings, over the
intervening humps of rock and furze. The fox was making a well-known
point, and running a well-known line, but the fences in their infinite
variety, defied the staling force of custom, and the difficulties of
the going were intensified by the pace. The hounds gained at length
the ridge of the high country, and as they flitted along the skyline,
the riders, labouring among the rocks, skirting the bogs, pounding at
the best pace they could raise over the intervals of heather and
grass, felt that their hold on the hunt had become distinctly
insecure.

"'Christian dost thou see them?'" quoted Larry, kicking his heels into
the bay cob's well-covered ribs without effect, "for I don't!"

"They'll check at Carrigaholt," called back Bill Kirby; "that'll be
our chance--"

They were far up on the slope of the hills now; the country swung in
long, dipping lines, down to the Vale of the Broadwater, and spread,
in great and generous curves, away to the far range of the Mweelin
Mountains, that brooded, in colour a deep and sullen sapphire, on the
horizon. The town of Cluhir, a little puff of smoke, cut in two by the
wide river, lay below. The spires of the two churches rose above the
smoke, one on either side of the bridge that spanned the river. The
sound of bells, faintly rising from one of them, summoned the faithful
to the mid-day Mass in honour of St. Stephen.

Larry, pushing Tommy along at a dogged canter, lifted his bowler hat
as he heard the bells, and Christian and Judith looked at each other.