One of them, the M.F.H., Colonel Rose of Wardenhurst, pushed his horse forward.  He raised his hat with extreme courtliness.

“Madam,” he said, “while appreciating your courage, allow me to point out that that fox is now the legal property of the Hunt, and you have no right whatever to deprive us of it.”

His daughter Ina, a slim girl of twenty, was at his elbow.  She jogged it impatiently.  “He’ll remain our property whether we kill or not, Dad.  Let him live to run again!”

“What?” cried a voice in the rear.  “Let a woman interfere?  Great Heavens above, Barchard!  Have you gone mad?”

Barchard the huntsman glanced round uneasily as an old man on a powerful white horse forced his way to the front.  His grey eyes glowered down at Avery as though he would slay her.  The trampling hoofs came within a yard of her.  But if he thought to make her desert her post by that means, he was mistaken.  She stood there, actually waiting to be hustled by the fretting animal, and yielding not an inch.

“Stand aside!” thundered Sir Beverley.  “Confound you!  Stand aside!”

But Avery never stirred.  She faced him panting but unflinching.  The foam of his hunter splashed her, the mud from the stamping hoofs struck upwards on her face; but still she stood to defend the defenceless thing behind her.

She often wondered afterwards what Sir Beverley would have done had he been left to settle the matter in his own way.  She was horribly afraid, but she certainly would never have yielded to aught but brute force.

But at this juncture there came a sudden diversion.  Another voice made itself heard in furious protest.  Another horse was spurred forward; and Piers, white to the lips, with eyes of awful flame, leaned from his saddle and with his left hand caught Sir Beverley’s bridle, dragging his animal back.

What he said Avery did not hear; it was spoken under his breath.  But she saw a terrible look flash like an evil spirit into Sir Beverley’s face.  She saw his right arm go up, and heard his riding-crop descend with a sound like a pistol-shot upon Piers’ shoulders.

It was a horrible sight and one which she was never to forget.  Both horses began to leap madly, the one Sir Beverley rode finally rearing and being pulled down again by Piers who hung on to the bridle like grim death, his head bent, his shoulders wholly exposed to those crashing merciless blows.

They reeled away at length through the crowd, which scattered in dismay to let them pass, but for many seconds it seemed to Avery that the awful struggle went on in the dusk as Piers dragged his grandfather from the spot.

A great weakness had begun to assail her.  Her knees were quivering under her.  She wondered what the next move would be, and felt utterly powerless to put forth any further effort.  And then she heard Ina Rose’s clear young voice.

“Barchard, take the hounds back to kennels!  I’m sure we’ve all had enough for one day.”