“Going to have rine!” now observes he, as a heavy drop beats upon his up-turned nose. At the same instant a duplicate drop falls upon Miss de Glancey’s fair cheek, causing her to wish herself anywhere but where she was. Another, and another, and another, follow in quick succession, while the dark, dreary moor offers nothing but the inhospitable freedom of space. The cold wind cuts through her, making her shudder for the result. “He’s for the hills!” exclaims Gameboy Green, still struggling on with a somewhat worse-for-wear looking steed. “He’s for the hills!” repeats he, pointing to a frowning line in the misty distance. At the same instant his horse puts his foot in a stone-hole, and Gameboy and he measure their lengths on the moor. “That comes of star-gazing,” observed his lordship, turning his coat-collar up about his ears. “That comes of star-gazing,” repeats he, eyeing the loose horse scampering the wrong way. “We’ll see no more of him,” observed Miss de Glancey, wishing she was as well out of it as Green. “Not likely, I think,” replied his lordship, seeing the evasive rush the horse gave, as Speed, who was coming up with some tail hounds, tried to catch him. The heath-brushing fox leaves a scent that fills the painfully still atmosphere with the melody of the hounds, mingled with the co-beck—co-beck—co-beck of the startled grouse. There is a solemn calm that portends a coming storm. To Miss de Clancey, for whom the music of the hounds has no charms, and the fast-gathering clouds have great danger, the situation is peculiarly distressing. She would stop if she durst, but on the middle of a dreary moor how dare she. An ominous gusty wind, followed by a vivid flash of lightning and a piercing scream from Miss de Glancey, now startled the Earl’s meditations. “Lightning!” exclaimed his lordship, turning short round to her assistance. “Lightning in the month of November—never heard of such a thing!” But ere his lordship gets to Miss de Glancey’s horse, a most terrific clap of thunder burst right over head, shaking the earth to the very centre, silencing the startled hounds, and satisfying his lordship that it _was_ lightning. Another flash, more vivid if possible than the first, followed by another pealing crash of thunder, more terrific than before, calls all hands to a hurried council of war on the subject of shelter. “We must make for the Punch-bowl at Rockbeer,” exclaims General Boggledike, flourishing his horn in an ambiguous sort of way, for he wasn’t quite sure he could find it. “_You_ know the Punch-bowl at Rockbeer!” shouts he to Harry Swan, anxious to have some one on whom to lay the blame if he went wrong.