"'Very true, sir; for I am certain my two first shots had wounded him, and yet he made a third flight of nearly half a mile. But I had sworn to have him, and on I went. Impossible to get near him. He led me on, mile after mile, always flying away as soon as I came within fifty or sixty paces. I became furious. If I had caught him I think I should have eaten him alive, and the more so as I was beginning to get very hungry. Fortunately, as I had calculated on remaining out all day, I had my breakfast and dinner in my game-bag, and I eat as I went along.' "'Pardon me,' said Mery, interrupting M. Louet; 'I have an observation to make. Observe, my dear Dumas, the difference between the habits of the human race in northern and southern climes. In the north the sportsman runs after his game; in the south he waits for it to come to him. In the first case he takes out an empty bag and brings home a full one; in the other he takes it out full and brings it home empty. Pray, go on, my dear M. Louet. I have spoken.' And he recommenced puffing at his cigar. "'Where was I?' said M. Louet, who had lost the threat of his narrative through this interruption. "'Speeding over hill and dale in pursuit of your thrush.' "'True, sir. I cannot describe to you the state of excitement and irritation I was in. I began to think of the bird of Prince Camaralzaman, and to suspect that I, too, might be the victim of some enchantment. I passed Cassis and La Ciotat, and entered the large plain extending from Ligne to St. Cyr. I had been fifteen hours on my feet, and I was half dead with fatigue. I made a vow to Our Lady of La Garde to hang a silver thrush in her chapel, if she would only assist me to catch the living one I was following; but she paid no attention to me. Night was coming on, and in despair I fired my last shot at the accursed bird. I have no doubt he heard the lead whistle, for this time he flew so far that I lost sight of him in the twilight. He had gone in the direction of the village of St. Cyr. Probably he intended to sleep there, and I resolved to do the same. Fortunately there was to be no performance that night at the Marseilles theatre.'" The worthy basso goes to the inn at St. Cyr, and relates his troubles to the host, who decides that the object of his pursuit must have halted for the night in a neighbouring piece of brushwood. By daybreak M. Louet is again a-foot, accompanied by the innkeeper's dog, Soliman. They soon get upon the scent of the devoted thrush.