the one we were after.  I wondered how he knew, but didn’t ask any questions.  Once or twice we stopped in the thick of the woods, having apparently lost ourselves entirely, not hearing a sound, and then in the distance there would be the faint sound of the horn, enough for him to distinguish the vue, which meant that they were still running.  Suddenly, very near, we heard the great burst of the hallali—­horses, dogs, riders, all joining in; and pushing through the brushwood we found ourselves on the edge of a big pond, almost a lake.  The stag, a fine one, was swimming about, nearly finished, his eyes starting out of his head, and his breast shaken with great sobs.  The whole pack of dogs was swimming after him, the hunters all swarming down to the edge, sounding their horns, and the master of hounds following in a small flatboat, waiting to give the coup de grace with his carbine when the poor beast should attempt to get up the bank.  It was a sickening sight.  I couldn’t stand it, and retreated (we had all dismounted) back into the woods, much to the surprise and disgust of my companion, who was very proud and pleased at having brought me in at the death among the very first.  Of course, one gets hardened, and a stag at bay is a fine sight.  In the forest they usually make their last stand against a big tree, and sell their lives dearly.  The dogs sometimes get an ugly blow.  I was really very glad always when the stag got away.  I had all the pleasure and excitement of the hunt without having my feelings lacerated at the end of the day.  The sound of the horns and the unwonted stir in the country had brought out all the neighbourhood, and the inhabitants of the little village, including the cure and the chatelaine of the small chateau near, soon appeared upon the scene.  The cure, a nice, kindly faced old man, with white hair and florid complexion, was much interested in all the details of the hunt.  It seems the stag is often taken in these ponds, les etangs de la ramee, which are quite a feature in the country, and one of the sights of the Villers-Cotterets forest, where strangers are always brought.  They are very picturesque; the trees slope down to the edge of the ponds, and when the bright autumn foliage is reflected in the water the effect is quite charming.

Mme. de M., the chatelaine, was the type of the grande dame Francaise, fine, clear-cut features, black eyes, and perfectly white hair, very well arranged.  She was no longer young, but walked with a quick, light step, a cane in her hand.  She, too, was much interested, such an influx of people, horses, dogs, and carriages (for in some mysterious way the various vehicles always seemed to find their way to the finish).  It was an event in the quiet little village.  She admired my mare very much, which instantly won my affections.  She asked us to come back with her to the chateau—­it was only about a quarter of an hour’s walk—­to have some refreshment after our long day; so I held