“The pack, or what was left of them, had got a bit ahead during this time; but he had a clear view of them on the downland, and the mare seemed full of pride at being the only one left, for she was stepping out rarely and tossing her head as she went.  They were two miles over the green shoulder of a hill, a rattle down a stony, deep-rutted country lane, where the mare stumbled and nearly came down, a jump over a 5ft. brook, a cut through a hazel copse, another dose of heavy ploughland, a couple of gates to open, and then the green, unbroken Downs beyond.

“‘Well,’ said Wat Danbury to himself, ’I’ll see this fox run into or I shall see it drowned, for it’s all clear going now between this and the chalk cliffs which line the sea.’  But he was wrong in that, as he speedily discovered.  In all the little hollows of the downs at that part there are plantations of fir-woods, some of which have grown to a good size.  You do not see them until you come upon the edge of the valleys in which they lie.  Danbury was galloping hard over the short, springy turf when he came over the lip of one of these depressions, and there was the dark clump of wood lying in front of and beneath him.  There were only a dozen hounds still running, and they were just disappearing among the trees.  The sunlight was shining straight upon the long olive-green slopes which curved down towards this wood, and Danbury, who had the eyes of a hawk, swept them over this great expanse; but there was nothing moving upon it.  A few sheep were grazing far up on the right, but there was no other sight of any living creature.  He was certain then that he was very near to the end, for either the fox must have gone to ground in the wood or the hounds’ noses must be at his very brush.  The mare seemed to know also what that great empty sweep of countryside meant, for she quickened her stride, and a few minutes afterwards Danbury was galloping into the fir-wood.

“He had come from bright sunshine, but the wood was very closely planted, and so dim that he could hardly see to right or to left out of the narrow path down which he was riding.  You know what a solemn, churchyardy sort of place a fir-wood is.  I suppose it is the absence of any undergrowth, and the fact that the trees never move at all.  At any rate a kind of chill suddenly struck Wat Danbury, and it flashed through his mind that there had been some very singular points about this run—­ its length and its straightness, and the fact that from the first find no one had ever caught a glimpse of the creature.  Some silly talk which had been going round the country about the king of the foxes—­a sort of demon fox, so fast that it could outrun any pack, and so fierce that they could do nothing with it if they overtook it—­suddenly came back into his mind, and it did not seem so laughable now in the dim fir-wood as it had done when the story had been told over the wine and cigars.  The nervousness which had been on him in the morning, and which he had hoped that he had shaken off, swept over him again in an overpowering wave.  He had been so proud of being alone, and yet he would have given 10 pounds now to have had Joe Clarke’s homely face beside him.  And then, just at that moment, there broke out from the thickest part of the wood the most frantic hullabaloo that ever he had heard in his life.  The hounds had run into their fox.