THE LIFE OF A FOX. 125

but, laying my ears well back on my poll, took
straight away across the moor, and just had a
glimpse of the hounds and their noble huntsman,
Lord Elcho, topping the wall at the same time.
My flight, however, was too rapid to allow time
for much curiosity. This was enough to make
me go my best pace straight across the moor for
four miles, and then a mile or two beyond, over
fields, till I reached a hanging covert on a steep
by the side of the Whiteadder River, at which
time the hounds were not more than four hundred
yards from me. Although they did not see me,
they ran the whole way as if they really did.
Here, although there was soon another fox or
two moving, they still went on with my scent;
for with the most unerring judgment this hunts-
man kept the pack from changing, till at length
I crossed the river, and over the moor on the
other side to a place of refuge, a crevice in
a rock, for I could not go farther. The gen-
tlemen rode up, and I heard these words:
“Well, I never saw a finer run. During the
first four miles the tail hounds never got to
G 3