coverts, will give a good guess as to the direction in which the
field will move. No; he must make an effort. The time of his
penance has come, and the penance must be borne. There is a spark
of pluck about him, though unfortunately he has brought it to
bear in a wrong direction. The blood still runs at his heart, and
he resolves that he will ride, if only he could tell which way.

The stout gentleman on the cob has taken the road to the left
with a few companions; but our friend knows that the stout
gentleman has a little game of his own which will not be suitable
for one who intends to ride. Then the crowd in front has divided
itself. Those to the right rush down a hill towards a brook with
a ford. One or two, men whom he hates with an intensity of
envy, have jumped the brook, and have settled to their work.
Twenty or thirty others are hustling themselves through the
water. The time for a judicious start on that side is already
gone. But others, a crowd of others, are facing the big ploughed
field immediately before them. That is the straightest riding,
and with them he goes. Why has the scent lain so hot over the up-
turned heavy ground? Why do they go so fast at this the very
first blush of the morning ? Fortune is always against him, and
the horse is pulling him through the mud as though the brute
meant to drag his arm out of the socket. At the first fence, as
he is steadying himself, a butcher passes him roughly in the jump
and nearly takes away the side of his top boot. He is knocked
half out of his saddle, and in that condition scrambles through.
When he has regained his equilibrium he sees the happy butcher
going into the field beyond. He means to curse the butcher when
he catches him, but the butcher is safe. A field and a half
before him he still sees the tail hounds, and renews his effort.