himself.

But this was not to be a long trail as the event proved, though it was
mostly up-hill. Before a mile and a half had been covered Desdemona
began to show excitement and emitted a single deep bay, mellow as the
note of an organ. Finn remarked her fine voice with sincere approval.
Like all hounds, he detested a sharp, high, or yapping cry. A few
seconds later Desdemona came to a standstill beside the stem of a
starveling yew-tree, and just below the crest of the Down. Her muzzle
was thrust into an opening in the steep side of the Down, over which
there hung a thatch of furze. But though her head entered the opening,
her shoulders could not pass it and there was wrath and excitement in
the belling note she struck as she drew back.

This was Finn's opportunity and, stepping forward, he attacked the
overhanging furze and stony chalky earth with both his powerful fore
feet. He had winded now a scent that roused him; and what is more, he
remembered precisely what that twangy, acrid scent betokened. The chalky
earth flew from under his great paws faster than two men could have
shifted it with mattocks; and, as the shelving crust was thin, it took
him no more than one or two minutes to make an opening through which
even his great bulk could pass with a little stooping.

Another moment and Desdemona had forced her way past Finn, baying
hoarsely, and was inside the cave. There followed a yowling, snarling
cry, a scuffling sound, and a big red fox emerged, low to the ground
like a cat, his brush between his legs, fight in his bared jaws, and
flight in his red rolling eyes. But fate had knocked at Reynard's door,
and would not be denied. His running did not carry him far. It is
probably somewhat disturbing to be rooted out of one's own particular