as if to compensate the persecuted animal for his recent trials, the hare now enjoyed what was to him a long immunity from molestation, for during january and part of february no enemy waylaid or pursued him.
at the end of that time the weather, which had again become bleak and inclement, suddenly softened with the return of the westerly wind, becoming so mild as to savour of spring. the change was felt and responded to by every creature. on st valentine’s day when golden valley resounded with the love songs of birds, the hare had already set out in search of a mate. whether influenced by reason or by instinct, he did not seek her along his usual beats, on which he had not once crossed the trail of his kind, but set his face to the north, to the unexplored land he had often looked down on from bartinney and chapel carn brea; there he was in high hope of meeting her.
so intent was he on his quest that he never stopped to browse, leaving untouched patch after patch of tender herbage in the moorland farms he crossed. yet he never saw a living thing. he came to the wild which is crowned by the weird rocks of carn kenidzhek, and here, standing near the summit, he scrutinised the moonlit waste, apparently a desolate land, a land without life. just before daybreak, however, there came into view, ghostly as the stoats but very much larger, a creature threading its way in and out among the furze bushes as it made for the carn. the hare was puzzled as to its identity until it began to ascend the slope, when to his surprise he saw that it was that uncommon thing, a white badger.
it presently winded the hare, stood, gazed at him, then after a glance at the faint glow in the depressions between the hills, hurried to its earth. as soon as it had disappeared the hare sought a couch in the heather, and sat with his face to the far-off carns, whose crests were soon bright in the rays of the rising sun.
“in that golden land,” he thought, “i shall surely find her. to-night i will go there.”
the day proved as glorious as the night had been serene, but for the hare it was all too long. he could hardly sit in his form, so eager was he to be afoot, and the moment the stars peeped he quitted the seat.
what miles on miles he traversed: he visited the hills, he penetrated to the cliffs of morvah, he turned inland again and roamed wide stretches of moor and down, he skirted chun[8] cromlech, and passed within sight of the men scryfa as he headed for the galver, with its upthrust peak conspicuous against the stars. from the galver he went to hannibal’s carn, and presently stood on its highest rock gazing at the plain beneath. his ears were pricked as they had been a score times since sundown to catch the whispers of the waste and perhaps hear the bleat of a doe. he listened as he had never listened before; but there came no call, no sound indeed save the murmur of the dawn wind about the crags; so at last the love-sick fellow forsook his station and returned to the galver, where after weaving a maze of trails he sought a form high up the slope.
in his lone retreat he felt as safe as on chapel carn brea; he was even more remote from the haunts of man. yet harriers were already on their way to the meet, and it was that very ground where he sat that was to be hunted.
the squire of trengwainton had breakfasted by candlelight, and as the clock over the stables was striking half-past six, he mounted his favourite grey mare and started out attired in full hunting costume, green coat, white breeches, boots reaching almost to the knee, and a velvet cap that well became his clean-shaven face. twelve couple of hounds followed at his horse’s heels, the little procession as it made its way along the avenue of beeches being closed by sam noy, the whipper-in.
coming to the high ground beyond the forest carn where the track forks, the squire turned in his saddle and asked which road he should take.
“the lower road, sir tudor,” was the prompt reply. strange though it seems that the squire of trengwainton should ask his way to the meet, the explanation is simple.
he had arrived in cornwall from pembroke only three weeks earlier, after a voyage exciting even for those disturbed times. the schooner in which he sailed was attacked off the land’s end by a privateer which had been harassing st ives, and compelled to run before the wind in order to escape capture. under cover of darkness she got away, and reached st ives with no more damage than a hole in her mainsail and the loss of her topmast. but the mayor and the watch mistaking the rakish-looking craft for another frenchman, had opened fire from the three four-pounders on the “island”—luckily without effect, the balls dropping at least fifty yards short.
the incident had so greatly amused the squire that the very memory of it brought a smile to his face again and again as he rode through the grey dawn. by and by the sun rose, making a jewel of every dewdrop, and calling forth the carols of the birds.
this changed the train of his thoughts. his mind reverted to gaston de foix, of all followers of the chase the one dearest to his heart, and after passing the farmhouse at lanyon as he descended the hill to the millpool he was quoting aloud: “et quant le soleil sera levé, il verra celle douce rosée sur rincelles et herbettes et le soleil par sa vertu les fera reluysir. c’est grant plaisance et joye au cœur du veneur.”
“we turn in here, sir,” presently interposed the whipper-in, who thought the squire had taken leave of his seven senses.
“four parishes, where the meet is, lies right afore ’ee under the galver, and the galver is that git hill up again’ the sky theere.”
whereupon sir tudor left the track for the moor lined with the shadows of the carns.
awaiting him at four parishes[9] were squire tregenna, to whose gun-fire he had been exposed in st ives bay, squire praed of trevethoe, a few yeomen, some crofters for the most part fairly mounted, and a promiscuous crowd of men afoot, amongst whom the fiddler’s pinched face peeped out between the rough beards of two tall smugglers, and three or four ne’er-do-wells were marked off by their careless slouch from the sturdier forms of half a dozen miners.
after greetings had been exchanged, sir tudor appealed to jim curnow of towednack, whose keenness and knowledge he had already noticed: “where shall we draw first?”
“try the ground about the galver,” said curnow, “if there’s a hare left in the country she’ll be there.”
so it was decided; and all moved off to the hill, where the pack scattered freely in search of the game.
they were a level lot of hounds, very much alike to a stranger, yet as different in the eyes of the squire as were their names to his ears. he had named them himself, most happily squire praed thought, on hearing sir tudor call in turn on melody, corisande, guinevere, merlin, cymro, and caradoc.
awhile each hound worked separately, indifferent to all around, one would have thought, yet in reality keenly observant of the others, for as soon as trueboy waved his stern half a score flocked to him.
they are at once all excitement, as well they may be; they have hit the line of the hare, and are following it between the two big boulders where he passed on his way to hannibal’s carn, the tan splashes on their coats gleaming like russet gold in the slant sunlight, their musical voices awakening the echoes of the rocks, and thrilling every member of the little field.
soon they return to the galver, clinging tenaciously to the trail, whose bewildering maze they strive their utmost to unravel. the eager movements of every hound show that he knows the hare is near and will soon be afoot, yet, when like a shadow gliding over the sunlit slope below the ridge he silently steals away, not one even suspects that he has risen, much less catches a glimpse of his crouching form.
the squire, however, has viewed him; his hand proclaims it, raised to command silence and allow a reasonable start to the jack, who still moves stealthily in the hope of getting away unobserved. but the moment the squire cheers the hounds on to his line he knows that he has been seen, instantly abandons his slinking tactics and breaks into a gallop, his head pointed straight for his native hills.
it was an exhilarating moment for sir tudor, and as he settled down to ride, what with the pleasant undulations of his horse, what with the freshness of the morning and the wildness of the country, above all with the thought that his little companions in a hundred hunts were chiming on the scent of their first cornish hare, he would not have changed seats with king george.
he kept sufficiently close to the pack to observe the niceties of the chase and help the hounds in case of a check; but they held on, straight as a crow might fly, in the direction of chun castle.
there the hare stopped for the first time and looked back. his glance, which took in hounds, horsemen, and the straggling line of pedestrians, removed all doubts that he himself was the object of pursuit, so he laid his ears back again and resumed his gallop, scared nearly as much by the glaring sunlight as by the cries of the pack.
twice he swerved, the first time to cross a ploughed field which he knew would hold little scent, and again to thread his way among the cattle in a field beyond. presently he crossed the track to st just close behind a train of mules bearing tin ore, set foot on balleswidden common, and soon saw the hills of his first home right ahead of him.
cheered by the sight he sped bravely on across the waste of furze and heather to the foothills, and bounded up the slope with a vigour that showed little sign of fatigue. he was making for the form. there he believed he would be safe when shielded by a ruse, for he meant after going nearly to the foot of chapel carn brea to return on his line and leap aside into his seat.
his mind was full of his purpose as he skirted the liddens, and a little way beyond them he stopped to satisfy himself that he had time to carry out his plan before the hounds came up. though he listened intently, he heard nothing; his pursuers had been delayed in the ploughed field as he expected: he had ample opportunity for his manœuvre.
yet the whole plan came to nought. on reaching the chantry he suddenly leapt aside as if from an ambuscade, for he found himself in the presence of man. there on a rock sat an antiquary sketching the ruin, and so engrossed by his task that he never saw the hare. even if he had he would not have raised a finger to scare it, much less betray its refuge to the hounds. but the hare’s faith in man was gone. he fled down the hill towards brea farm, save for the thud of the flail in the barn silent as in winter, and from thence to the moor, over which he rather loped than galloped, for he was getting exhausted.
meanwhile sir tudor had reached the chantry. despite the excitement of the chase he reined in his mare, and looked for the first time on cornwall’s fairest scene.
“fine subject for a canvas,” he said, addressing the antiquary.
“yes, but not half so impressive as this old oratory, with its memories.”
“perhaps you are right,” said the squire, riding on again after the hounds, now streaming over the boundary wall.
the mare took him over the wall with the greatest ease, and soon was cantering along the bridle-track, watched by andrew, whom the music of the hounds had drawn to the barn steps.
“have you seen her?” asked sir tudor, when he reached the farmyard.
“seed what, sir?”
“the hare?”
“no, sir, theere ed’n such a crittur in the country.”
later the fiddler came running past. “where are they, andrew?” he asked breathlessly.
“gone right over the ‘curley’ moor straight for hayl kimbra pool. but what’s the hurry? stop and have a bit of croust,[10] a bit o’ heavy cake.”[11]
“lor’ bless the boy, ’tes no time for feasting nor fiddling. did ’ee ever hear such pretty music as they little dogs give out?”
and without waiting for an answer the fiddler went off as if his life depended on being in at the finish.
andrew had directed him well, for the hare had gone to the pool where he had his first swim. the hounds following, crossed it as if nothing could live before them; but on the far side of the moor, where beyond trevescan it slopes gently to the sea, they were in difficulties. the hare had run along a stone wall, returned a score yards on his trail, leapt into the track it bordered, and gone off in the direction of his cliff retreat, now his goal.
there for the first time the squire came to their aid. he solved the mystery of the wall in vain, for the track held no scent, and he was face to face with defeat.
hearing a shout, he looked up and saw a man on a bank waving his hat.
“did you see her, my man?” said he, riding up to him.
“i did, sir, and flinged this pollack at her, and turned her.”
“was she done up?”
“not a bit, for when i heaved the fish, she took down along over they rocks there, like a ball of fire. but if you’re going down to the point, you’d better leave hoss and hounds behind. ’tes no place for they.”
taking the hint, sir tudor left his mare and the hounds in charge of the whipper-in, and casting his eyes right and left as he went in the hope of seeing the hare, made his way to the extremity of the headland.
“what do you call this point?”
“why, bless thee, i thought every grown man knowed that!”
“’tes the land’s end.”
“ah!” ejaculated sir tudor reflectively. he was moved at learning that he stood at the uttermost verge of the land; for a moment he forgot all about the hare, but only for a moment.
“i hope she’s not gone over,” said he, as he looked down at the seething waters. then after a pause, he added with much feeling—“she was as stout a hare as ever stood before hounds.”
he quite believed that the jack had leaped over rather than be taken; but he was wrong. the distressed creature had found a sanctuary amongst the rocks, where the hounds would never have found him even had they been allowed to search.
there we will leave him, for though his after years were marked by hairbreadth escapes, his adventures do not exceed in interest those that have been chronicled.
one incident, however, must be mentioned.
within four days of the chase he returned to hannibal’s carn, where he found a mate worthy of his fine qualities, and for a time his happiness was complete.
all his days he remained true to his native hill; in the end he crept beneath the ruins of the chantry, and there the toad guarded the portal of his death-chamber.
