on leaving the moor the hare headed as if to return to tregonebris, but in the dip below the stone-circle he suddenly changed his course and made straight for brea. he had that instant formed the resolve to forage on the farm there and to harbour afterwards on his native hill. his panic pace, even more the staring eyes turned ever behind him, bespoke his nervous condition; but the farther he went the more composed he grew, and he was almost his normal self by the time he reached his destination.
there he roamed in search of food from pasture to pasture, wondering to see the change that had come over them since his early leveret days. then the corn and the grass rose high above his head; he recalled how he had stood on his hind legs and looked over the array of ears; now there was not herbage enough to cover his pads. but despite the nakedness of the enclosures he experienced no sense of strangeness: the bushes on the hedges, the gates, the gaps and the linhay in the field beyond the old mine-heaps were the same as ever. he remembered them all, even the hole in the wall of the three-cornered enclosure; and through this, in the small hours, he squeezed his way to the turnip-field that runs like a narrow promontory into the waste. the sight of the turnips gladdened his eyes, for he had gleaned little on the closely browsed grass-land and was very hungry.
he at once pared the rind from one of the roots and began feasting on the succulent pulp. the stars shone bright, the fleecy clouds moved slowly, and the light wind scarcely breathed a sigh on the open waste where some curlews were whistling. the hare took no notice of their calls, but at the startled cry of a plover he at once sprang to the top of the wall, to learn, if he could, what had disturbed it. he scanned the face of the moor carefully without seeing any sign of a marauder, so at length returned to the half-eaten root and consumed it without further interruption.
the night was nearly gone before he withdrew, not following the way he had come, but leaping the wall and crossing the corner of the moor to the partly-upturned field. here a plough in the furrow caught his eye and caused him to swerve from his path. yet suspicious as he was of the plough he passed close to a bucket of mushrooms in the five acres, where he stood on a mound to gaze at the silent homestead and at carn brea before he set off for the hill. then, as though the fading stars warned him of the need to hurry, he went at so brisk a pace that the noise of his pads on the bridle-track sounded quite distinct in the stillness of the dawn. at the foot of the long slope he quickly laid his maze; he threaded his way up and up past the pilgrim’s spring almost to the chantry, and chose a seat amongst the bracken within a few yards of the spot where he was born.
five months had passed since he sat there, but he felt quite at home. as the light grew, the outlook commanded a well-remembered prospect, albeit the vegetation had greatly changed. his young eyes had beheld it fresh and green; now all was sere and tinted with the colours of decay. yet the herbage thus blended so wondrously with the russet of his coat that he was not to be distinguished from his surroundings. he seemed a part of the rich mantle which draped the giant shoulders of the hill down to the very verge of the farm, where all was grey and sombre save the bright gold of the sycamore by the dairy window.
presently the farmer crossed the yard to the shed for the oxen and drove them along the lane to the half-ploughed field, followed by the watchful gulls, which came flying in from the cliffs in such numbers that the long furrow in the wake of the plough was soon white with their forms.
the hare was an interested spectator of all this movement; indeed everything that moved claimed his notice; not a leaf of the sycamore fell but it caught his eye. stirred by association, old memories, too, came flocking back; once more he was a tiny leveret listening to the whispered monition of his mother, “sit still, dears, till i come back”; once more he was sitting beside his little sister hearkening to the voices of the night that always died away before the footfall of their mother broke the silence of the dawn and set their hearts aflutter with delight. then, though he strove to repress all sinister recollections, he rehearsed the visit of the vixen; a glint of the pool on the distant moor called up the horrors of the previous day.
but the most trifling incident diverted his attention; soon he was occupied in watching a red admiral which had settled on a bramble leaf and kept opening and shutting its gorgeous wings, as if for his distraction.
so hour after hour passed in the warm light that bathed the hill and touched with a velvety softness even the old chantry and the granite boulders, till at length the sun sank behind the sea, leaving plain and upland to the mystery of night and the glories of the full moon.
that day was the harbinger of a lovely st martin’s summer, during which the hare greatly enjoyed sitting on the hill and wandering over the lowland. it would have been a perfect time but for the abundance of the gossamers; they floated from every blade and spray and clung to his legs and chest, even to his face, causing him much annoyance. he was very nice as to his person; he could not rest unless his coat was free of everything that adhered to it, and it was a tedious business getting rid of the gossamer threads; indeed, it took him so long that he had to return earlier than usual so as to finish the grooming before daybreak, lest the movement of his pads and tongue, which served as brushes and sponge, should betray him to his enemies.
the welcome after-summer lasted a full fortnight, and was abruptly terminated by sea-fogs, that came rolling in from the atlantic and enveloped the land as with a dense pall. much as the hare had disliked the gossamer webs he disliked the fog still more, not only because it shut out the view and the light of the sun and the moon, but—what was much more serious—because it afforded cover to the foxes, who moved about as fearlessly by day as by night.
these prowlers became a positive trouble; scarcely a day passed but at least one went by; amongst them a big grey fox, whom he had never seen before, but of whom he was to see more than he liked in the terrible winter that followed. yet close as these marauders approached the seats, they never discovered the hare.
in fact, the time of chief danger was the night. he was abroad then, but it was impossible to see more than a few yards ahead, so that once he almost ran into the farm cat in the mushroom field; two nights later he brushed close past a badger that was stretching itself against the upright of a cromlech. however, no harm ensued; for the hare leapt aside and was lost to sight in the fog as effectually as if he had been covered with a mass of cotton wool.
he got glimpses of other animals in his wanderings, though so vaguely that he failed to identify them. moreover in the strange conditions the hare himself sometimes proved a terror to creatures he stumbled on, causing a hedgehog to curl up in affright on the five acres, and scaring a heron out of its senses on the moor beyond. the fog was as impervious to scent as to sight, and he was on his victims before they heard him, for the fog deadened all sound, of footfall, of bird cry, even of the great foghorn on the longships, which sounded like a penny trumpet.
but of all the ills attendant on those ceaseless mists, the one which caused the hare most discomfort was the moisture that collected on the herbage and dripped on his back as he sat in the form. two days he endured the misery; then he left the comfortable seat for the shelter of the fallen masonry of the chantry, and sat cheek by jowl with an enormous toad who resented his company till he got to understand and like him.
on the fourth day, however, that the hare saw the great bank of fog come moving landwards from the sea, to the joy of man and beast an easterly wind set in which banished the fog and dried the sodden herbage, rendering the form habitable again. it was a keen, biting wind, but the hare felt no inconvenience. one sign of the cold snap was the red shawl in which the farmer’s wife rode to market; another, quite as unmistakable, was the advent of the woodcock, whom the hare found sitting near the seat two days later. the stranger was unlike any bird he had seen; it had rich brown plumage beautifully pencilled, a very long bill, and soft black eyes which looked fearlessly into his. the hare, unobservant though he usually was of such matters, could not help seeing that it was very jaded and weary; and weary it might well be, for it had but just accomplished its long flight from heligoland.
two days before it had harboured in its native forest by the baltic, awaiting the fall of night to begin its journey to the unfrozen west. when the moon showed above the ghostly steppe, the bird had risen over the snow-laden pine-tops and, mounting to a great height in company with a score others, set out for the hospitable land beyond the seas. the wind was favourable; bight, lagoon, and island marked the way, till the glimmer given out by a lighthouse—a glimmer that grew brighter and brighter—told that their mid-journey resting-place had been reached. they hid till night; then they rose again and resumed their flight beneath the starry vault.
no sound of earth reached the high region where they moved; their own faint wing-beats alone broke the silence through which hour after hour the wedge-shaped line pressed on till the vast silvery ocean that had lain outspread beneath them gave place to a sombre plain relieved only by the glow-worm light emitted by town and city far below.
soon as remembered haunts were reached the little flock began to break up: now one, now two, and after a long interval, four birds forsook the line; others followed, so that when a second ocean showed on either side the narrowing land, only three remained. but the little remnant still sped on, nearer and nearer to their destination at the end of the promontory. two dropped into golden valley, and the remaining woodcock reached carn brea alone. little wonder, then, that he was very tired; yet so soon did he recover from his fatigue that when dusk fell he rose without an effort, and, skimming the slope, passed over brea farm and the now empty turnip-field to the boggy feeding-ground beyond.
daybreak found hare and woodcock back in their places on the hill; and for three days they kept company there, or rather till the afternoon of the third day, when the wind veered back to the old quarter, beating with such violence on the face of carn brea that the hare could not endure it, and stole to sheltered quarters on the southern flank of the hill. there, with his back to a furze-bush, he sat watching the withered grasses of the foothills swept by the hurricane and the low wrack driven past close overhead. the wind fell at sundown, but rose again later and blew with such vehemence that the hare, who was foraging at boscawen-un, could scarcely make headway against it. once he was actually brought to a standstill, and when crossing brahan moor on his way back it was all he could do to keep his feet. by the time he got to the form he was so wearied out by the incessant buffeting that whilst listening to the shriek and sob of the wind he fell asleep, and—a thing he rarely did—dreamt.
in his dream he saw as if with his eyes, so vivid was the presentment, a wood devastated by storm; at its foot—for the trees covered a long declivity—a curving strand and a raging sea in which living things struggled to reach the shore. night changed suddenly to day: as suddenly the scene changed from falling trees and breaking waves to wind-swept foothills, up which, nose to ground, a brindled lurcher ran with incredible swiftness—and the foothills were the foothills below him, the lurcher was the farm dog from boscawen-un; the trail it followed was his own trail. his wide-open eyes beheld every twist and turn of the dog’s advance without suggesting danger, till the enemy was almost within springing distance; then consciousness returned, and at a bound the affrighted creature cleared the bush and fled up the hill. he soon outdistanced his pursuer, fleet-footed though she was, reached the crest, swerved and ran with the gale at his back till within sight of caer bran. after coming so far he wished to satisfy himself that the dog still pursued. the wind lashed his face and beat down his ears; it threatened to blow him off the wall he stood on; but he held his ground and looked along his trail.
so had he often stood when followed by foxes, but never once did he get a glimpse of them: one and all recognised the uselessness of trying to overtake him, and relinquished the chase. he was now to learn that a dog will persist though success seems hopeless, for soon he saw the lurcher coming on at a pace that filled him with consternation. at once he became concerned for his safety, but not an instant was he at a loss where to go.
a naked lane ran down the long slope to boswarthen farm, and the hare struck into it in the hope that the gravelly track, holding little or no scent, would render further pursuit difficult if not impossible. the lane, which winds considerably, ends at a gate; under this he passed to the fields, skirted the homestead, and finally reached johanna’s garden, where, after confusing the trail, he lay down in a furrow between two ridges of the upturned ground.
he had hopes of having defeated or disheartened his pursuer, yet it was in a fever of anxiety that he watched the gate under which he himself had crept.
his suspense was short, for soon to his horror a fox-like snout and long red tongue showed beneath the lowest bar. the next instant the lissom beast forced her way beneath it to the field. she at once picked up the line and followed it to the far corner near the old seat where the hare had leapt on the wall and walked along the rude coping-stones before leaping back and squatting near the medlar. carefully and not without difficulty the lurcher followed the scent to the last of the stones, naturally thought that the hare had gone on, and dropped to the oat stubble, but finding no trace of scent, recognised her mistake. then back she leapt to the wall, with wondrous ease considering its height; and though she could hardly keep her feet for the gale, she stood there all excitement, scrutinising the ploughed ground with eager eyes. she searched every furrow without descrying the hare; the leaves that whirled about him baffled her.
though she failed to find him, she was so convinced he was there that she sprang to the ground and began questing, beginning at the lower end and casting to and fro across the wind in the most leisurely fashion, as if she knew there was no occasion for hurry. she had drawn about a third of the field when the hare, seeing discovery was certain, slipped from his hiding-place and, crouching very low, stole towards the wall. he hoped to get away unobserved, but his hope was vain.
just as he reached the ditch the lurcher espied him, and with a single whine started in pursuit. her pace down the stubble was tremendous; she was not more than ten yards behind the hare at the badgers’ sett in the hollow below. but on the opposing rise she lost ground. by the time she came to the big pasture where she had picked up the line at dawn, the quarry was out of sight. she was again running by scent.
though the hare had won and maintained a lead of nearly a furlong, he was beginning to feel the strain of the chase, and anxiously consulted with himself about his safety. two voices made themselves heard: the homing instinct kept urging him to return to the hills; the voice of self-preservation with even greater insistence whispered, “seek the moor, there alone safety lies”; so towards hal kimbra moor he held on and on, till at last, from a bit of rising ground, he saw the bleak waste stretching away before him. the fear of being sighted and coursed on the level surface made him shrink from crossing it: his indecision, however, was only momentary; on looking back and seeing no sign of his enemy, he determined to commit himself, though not before foiling his trail.
between him and the lip of the moor lay a tract of marshy ground dotted with rushes and coarse grasses. here, with a view to checking his pursuer, he leapt from tuft to hummock and from hummock to tuft until he had confused his line. then he continued on his way, heading for an outlying turf-stack which stood between him and the pool. in the teeth of the hurricane he made slow progress, but he reached it at length, and glad of the shelter it afforded he sat down on the lee side, facing the ground he had just traversed. soon he saw the lurcher coming, and watched her anxiously as she stood on the brow of the rising ground scanning the moor. the moment she set foot on the marshy ground, where she was lost to view, he quitted his shelter and made for the pool. many a time he had covered the intervening ground in a minute or two; but the wind seemed bent on arresting his progress; in his exhausted state all he could do battling against it was to make headway. at length he gained the pool, and there his heart fell, for between him and his goal, the islet, lay a stretch of raging water. he had not reckoned on that.
he was a miserable creature as he sat on the shore, looking now towards the islet, now back over the moor. he could see no hope; death stared him in the face in both directions; yet the instant he saw the lurcher coming he decided to entrust himself to the pool. strangely enough, he did not wade in, but galloped a score yards along the strand and then cast himself into the hissing water, striking the spray from the surface. when he rose he struck out for his goal. he was hardly visible even on the crests of the waves; he was completely lost to sight when they broke over him; but he drew nearer and nearer to the islet, and after a terrible struggle at last landed at the otters’ creek.
great as was the hare’s distress, the love of life was greater. even in his extremity he was careful not to betray himself by any sudden movement to his pursuer, now at the side of the pool. for fear of detection, he stole from the water at a snail’s pace and, so slowly that no eye on the shore would have been aware of any movement, sank down on the sodden fern. there he lay hour after hour whilst his persistent enemy circled the pool and ransacked the waste in search of him.
it seemed as if she could not wrench herself away. once, indeed, she withdrew; but when near the turf-stack she suddenly turned and came back, though the gale raged more furiously than ever. on reaching the pool, she entered the water and stood staring at the islet. the hare observed her with feverish anxiety; he knew that his fate hung by a thread, and scarcely breathed. to the dog the spray-washed rock gave no sign of life whatever, yet it was long before she abandoned this last hope and finally withdrew. a more crestfallen creature than she looked it would be difficult to picture; her gait had lost all its briskness, her limbs relaxed, her ears drooped. her disappointment overwhelmed her; for she had counted the quarry hers the moment she sighted it, and on the moor had felt absolutely certain of it.
the hare watched the retreating form of his enemy till it became a speck and finally disappeared from view. then he rose, looked round to see that no other enemy was in sight, shook his coat, rolled where the otter had rolled, ensconced himself in the most sheltered spot his inhospitable refuge afforded, and there remained till night. it was pitch dark when he withdrew by way of the rocks he knew so well.
