Meanwhile Solomon has been creeping quietly on with his hounds, encouraging such to hunt as seemed inclined that way, though the majority were pretty well aware of the grand discovery and lean towards the horsemen in advance. Puss however had slipped away unseen by the hounds, and Twister darts at the empty form thinking to save all trouble by a chop. Bracelet then strikes a scent in advance. Ruffler and Chaunter confirm it, and after one or two hesitating rashes and flourishes, increasing in intensity each time, a scent is fairly established, and away they drive full cry amid exclamations of “Beautiful! beautiful! never saw anything puttier!” from the Major and the field—the music of the hounds being increased and prolonged by the echoes of the valleys and adjacent hills. The field then fall into line, Silent Solomon first, the Major of course next. Fine Billy third, with Wotherspoon and Nettlefold rather contending for his company. Nabley, Duffield, Bonnet, Reunison. Fanlder, Catcheside, truants, all mixed up together in heterogeneous confusion, jostling for precedence as men do when there are no leaps. So they round Hawthorn hill, and pour up the pretty valley beyond, each man riding a good deal harder than his horse, the hounds going best pace, which however is not very great. “Give me,—” inwardly prays the Major, cantering consequentially along with his thong-gathered whip held up like a sword, “give me five and twenty minutes, the first fifteen a burst, then a fault well hit off’, and the remaining ten without a turn,” thinking to astonish the supercilious foxhunter. Then he takes a sly look to see how Napoleon is faring, it being by no means his intention to let Fine Billy get to the bottom of him. On, on, the hounds press, for now is the time to enjoy the scent with a hare, and they have run long enough together to have confidence in their leaders. Now Lovely has the scent, now Lilter, now Ruffler flings in advance, and again is superseded by Twister. They brush through the heathery open with an increasing cry, and fling at the cross-road between Birwell Mill and Capstone with something like the energy of foxhounds; Twister catches it up beyond the sandy track, and hurrying over it, some twenty yards further on is superseded by Lovely, who hits it off to the left. Away she goes with the lead. “Beautiful! beautiful!” exclaims the Major, hoping the fox-hunter sees it. “Beautiful! beautiful!” echoes Nettlefold, as the clustering pack drop their sterns to the scent and push forward with renewed velocity.