Yes; Foxy would cry to her, as she had cried to the Mighty One dwelling in darkness. And she? What would she do? She knew that she could not go on living with that cry in her ears. She clutched the warm body closer. Though her thoughts had taken only an instant, the hounds were coming near. Outside the chapel James said: 'Dear me! A splendid sight! We'll wait to verify the 'apenny columns till they've killed.' They all elbowed in front of Edward. But he had seen. He snatched up his spade from the porch, and knocked James out of the way with the flat of it. 'I'm coming, dear!' he shouted. But she did not hear. Neither did she hear Reddin, who was still at a distance, and was spurring till the blood ran, as in the tale of the death-pack, yelling: 'I'm coming! Give her to me!' Nor the little cleric, in his high-pitched nasal voice, calling: 'Drop it! They'll pull you down!' while the large gold cross bumped up and down on his stomach. The death that Foxy must die, unless she could save her, drowned all other sights and sounds. She gave one backward glance. The awful resistless flood of liver and white and black was very near. Behind it rose shouting devils. It was the death-pack. There was no hope. She could never reach Edward's house. The green turf rose before her like the ascent to Calvary. The members of the hunt, the Master and the huntsmen, were slow to understand. Also, they were at a disadvantage, the run being such an abnormal one--against the wind and up a steep hill. They could not beat off the hounds in time. Edward was the only one near enough to help. If she had seen him and made for him, he might have done something. But she only saw the death-pack; and as Reddin shouted again near at hand, intending to drag her on to the horse, she turned sharply. She knew it was the Black Huntsman. With a scream so awful that Reddin's hands grew nerveless on the rein, she doubled for the quarry. A few woodlarks played there, but they fled at the oncoming tumult. For one instant the hunt and the righteous men, Reddin the destroyer, and Edward the saviour, saw her sway, small and dark, before the staring sky. Then, as the pack, with a ferocity of triumph, was flinging itself upon her, she was gone. She was gone with Foxy into everlasting silence. She would suck no more honey from the rosy flowers, nor dance like a leaf in the wind. Abel would sit, these next nights, making a small coffin that would leave him plenty of beehive wood. * * * * * There was silence on God's Little Mountain for a space. Afterwards a voice, awful and piercing, deep with unutterable horror--the voice of a soul driven mad by torture--clutched the heart of every man and woman. Even the hounds, raging on the quarry edge, cowered and bristled. It echoed in the freezing arches of the sky, and rolled back unanswered to the freezing earth. The little cleric, who had pulled a Prayer-Book from his pocket, dropped it.