The day was breaking when they dismounted before the great portico at Bendover. The huntsmen were gathering rapidly, and there were several ladies to join the hunt. Negro boys were leading the steaming horses up and down, while the huntsmen passed into the hospitable house. Breakfast was smoking on the table, and there was a constant procession of hot coffee from the kitchen, with the inevitable five kinds of bread which Virginia hospitality imperatively requires for breakfast. There were so many dishes that the long table would not accommodate them, and there was a semicircle of oysters, sausage, deviled bones, and other substantials around the broad open hearth. The breakfast, though plentiful, was hurried, so that the start could be made before the sun dried the rime off the ground. Everybody laughed and talked and nobody listened. In half an hour they were crowding out upon the lawn to mount. As it was a Christmas hunt, every horse carried in his headstall a sprig of holly berries. Of the half-dozen girls present, each had her special cavalier, Fortescue, of course, being the escort of Betty on her new mount. The hounds, impatient to be off, yelped fretfully as they trotted about with their noses to the ground, sniffing eagerly. The horses, knowing what was up, were keen to stretch their legs. That day's quarry was to be a very astute old red fox, which had devastated many chicken-coops in the smaller homesteads in the highlands, as the slightly rolling country beyond the river shore was called. [Illustration: THE SCENT LAY ACROSS THE OPEN FIELDS AND STRAGGLING WOODLANDS] At last the hunt was off for a screeching run. About four miles from Bendover, Rattler, the Nestor of the pack of hounds, caught the scent, and, lifting his head, gave one short, loud yelp of triumph, and then dashed away, making straight for a straggling skirt of woods. There was a rough cart-road through it, and along this the huntsmen galloped, the dogs crying near to them. Fortescue rode close to Betty's pommel. Birdseye maintained her character, and Betty thought she had never known so good a mount. It had been Fortescue's expectation that Betty would be merely a spectator of the hunt, but with such a horse as Birdseye under her Betty rode straight and followed the hounds. The scent lay across the open fields and straggling woodlands, and was not particularly rough, but Betty took all that came in her way. Birdseye was naturally a beautiful jumper, and, like many horses, took to the sport with joy. Fortescue admired Betty's lithe figure on the galloping horse, her delicate cheeks deeply flushed, and the little vagrant tendrils of hair, escaped from her filmy veil, streaming upon the air.