sanctuary by a baying bloodhound. But it is worse to find at one's front
door a vision of vengeance and destruction in the shape of a giant Irish
wolfhound whose kill one has purloined.

In Finn's salad days it might have meant a fight. As things were, it was
rather an execution; and though the fox died snapping, his neck was
broken before he had decided upon his line of action. As Finn flung the
furry corpse aside, Desdemona appeared in the mouth of the cave with
most of the stolen rabbit between her jaws. It was noteworthy that she
gave no heed at all to the fox. Her business as a tracker had been with
her mate's stolen kill. In the absence of Finn, Reynard would have paid
no other penalty for his theft than the loss of the rabbit. As it was,
the incident cost him his life; and he was a master fox, too, who had
ranged that countryside with considerable insolence for some years; a
terribly familiar foe in a number of neighboring farm-yards.

Neither Finn nor Desdemona ate the remains of that rabbit. For one
thing, they were not yet really hungry, and for another thing they did
not relish the musky tang left by Reynard's jaws. Apart from this (and
despite its strong scent) they were both keenly interested in the cave
which had been Reynard's home; especially Desdemona.

It seemed the bloodhound would never tire of investigating the cave,
once she had satisfied herself as to Finn fully understanding that she
alone, unaided, and with most complete success, had tracked down and
retrieved the stolen rabbit. This fact had to be clearly appreciated
before Desdemona could bring herself to lay aside the mangled rabbit.
Then she invited Finn's attention to the interior of the cave. Together
they explored its resources till Finn felt almost nauseated by the smell
of fox which filled the place. But Desdemona, with her far more delicate