From the hollow came the long-drawn cry of the hound. It was old
Captain. Betsy joined in, then Mike; and now the ridges rang with the
music of the chase. They were on a fresh trail; they were away over
hill and hollow, singing full-throated as they ran.

"They've found him," I cried, rising to hear the song of the hounds.

Weston sat down on the log.

"They are making for the other ridge," said I, pointing over the narrow
gully. "Hark! There's young Colonel."

But Weston went on smoking. "Poor Tim!" I heard him say.

Full and strong rang the music of the dogs, as they swung out of the
hollow, up the ridge-side. For a moment, in the clearing, I had a
glimpse of them, Captain leading, with Betsy at his haunches, and Mike
and Major nose and nose behind them. Far in the rear, but in the
chase, was little Colonel. A grand puppy, he! All ears and feet. But
he runs bravely through the tangled brush. Many a stouter dog comes
from it with flanks all torn and bloody. I waved my hat wildly,
cheering him on. I called to him loudly, in the vain hope he might
look back, as though at a time like this a hound would turn from the
trail. On he went into the woods--nose to the ground and body low--all
feet and ears--and a stout heart!

"Now we must wait," I said, "and watch, and hope."

Already they had turned the crest of the hill, and fainter and fainter