one day into the market-town, and this he had doubtless actually accomplished; but, on his return, he had had the misfortune to be caught sight of by one of his own packs of hounds, which were now in full pursuit of him, like another Actaeon.  The terrified stags, with that deep-mouthed menace of their natural enemies ringing in their ears, at once threw off all control, and had left their grooms behind them in half a dozen bounds.  If only the harness held, they would be at the lodge gate in a very few minutes; but, on the other hand, the hounds were nearer to that point, which they were approaching diagonally.  They were running, of course, by sight, like greyhounds, and with greyhounds’ speed.  Above their eager mellow notes, and the mad shouting of the excited sportsmen, and the ceaseless winding of the disregarded horn, above the thunder of his own wheels, and of the hoofs of his strange steeds upon the wintry road, rang out Carew’s hoarse tones:  “The gate, the gate!” If only that wooden wall could be interposed between his stags and their pursuers, all might yet be well.  But, though the lodge-keeper had been drawn by the tumult to his door, he stood there like one amazed and fascinated by the spectacle before him, and paralyzed with the catastrophe that seemed impending.

“Gate, gate, you gaping idiot!” roared the Squire, with a frightful curse; but the poor shaking wretch had not the power to stir; it was Yorke himself who dashed at the latch, and threw the long gate wide to let the madman pass, and then slammed it back upon the very jaws of the hounds.  They rushed against the solid wood like a living battering-ram, and howled with baffled rage; and some leaped up and got their fore-paws over it, and would have got in yet, but that Richard beat them back with his bare hands.

In the mean time Carew and his stags swept up the park like a whirlwind, and presently, coming to a coppice, the frightened creatures dashed into it, doubtless for covert, where wheel and rein and antler, tangling with trunk and branch, soon brought them to a full stop.

“Good lad!” exclaimed Carew, as Yorke hurried up to help him; “you are a good plucked one, you are; you shall keep the lodge, if you will, instead of that lily-livered scoundrel who was too frightened to move.  Oh, I ask pardon; you are a gentleman, are you?”

“Sir, I hope so,” answered the young man, stiffly, his anger only half subdued by the necessity for conciliation.

“Then, come up to the house and dine, whoever you are; I’ll lend you a red coat.  Curse those grooms! what keeps them?  One can’t sit upon a stag’s head to quiet him as though he were a horse.” (Two of the stags were down, and butting, at one another with their horns.) “What a pace we came up White Hill!  I tried to time them, but I could not get my watch out.  You moved yourself like a flash of lightning, else I thought we must have pinned you against the gate.  It was well done, my lad, well done; and I’m your debtor.”