Meanwhile, the four hunters were following as best they might.  In the all but soundless atmosphere, the rattle of the old buckboard could be heard a quarter of a mile.  Alternately losing and gaining ground as they cut off angles and followed the diameter instead of the circumference of the great circles the rabbit described, the drivers were always within sight.  Closer behind the hounds and following the same course, Florence rode her thoroughbred like mad, with Ben Blair at her side.  The pace was terrific.  The rush of the crisp morning air sang in their ears and cut keenly at their faces.  The tattoo of the horses’ feet upon the hard earth was continuous.  Beneath her riding-cap, the girl’s hair was loosened and swept free in the wind.  Her color was high, her eyes sparkled.  Never before had the man at her side seen her so fair to gaze upon; but despite the excitement, despite the rush of action, there was a jarring note in her beauty.  Deep in his nature, ingrained, elemental, was the love of fair play.  Though he was in the chase and a part of it, his sympathies were far from being with the hounds.  That the girl should favor the strong over the weak was something he could not understand—­a blemish that even her beauty did not excuse.

A quarter-hour passed.  The sun rose from the lap of the prairie and scattered the frost-crystals as though they had been mist.  The chase was near its end.  All moved more slowly.  A dozen times since they had started, it seemed as if the hounds must soon catch their prey, that in another second all would be over; but each time the rabbit had escaped, had at the last instant shot into the air, while the hounds rushed harmlessly beneath, and, ere they recovered, had gained a goodly lead again in a new course.  But now that time was past, and he was tired and weak.  It was a straight-away race, with the hounds scarcely twenty feet behind.  Back of the latter, perhaps ten rods, were the riders, still side by side as at first.  Their horses were covered with foam and blowing steadily, but nevertheless they galloped on gallantly.  Bringing up the rear, just in sight but now out of sound, was the buckboard.  Thus they approached the finish.

Inch by inch the dogs gained upon the rabbit.  Standing in his stirrups, Ben Blair, the seemingly stolid, watched the scene.  The twenty feet lessened to eighteen, to fifteen, and, turning his head, the man looked at his companion.  Beautiful as she was, there now appeared to his eye an expression of anticipation,—­anticipation of the end, anticipation of a death,—­the death of a weaker animal!

A determination which had been only latent became positive with Blair.  He urged on his horse to the uttermost and sprang past his companion.  His right hand went to his hip and lingered there.  His voice rang out above the sound of the horses’ feet and of their breathing.

“Hi, there, Racer, Pacer!” he shouted.  “Come here!”

There was no response from the hounds; no sign that they had heard him.  They were within ten feet of the rabbit now, and no voice on earth could have stopped them.