When they got to the lawn at the back of the house, he halted a moment, and said quietly, "Here they be." He pointed to some enormous footsteps in the snow, and bade her notice that they commenced at a certain glass door belonging to the house, and that they all pointed outwards. The lawn was covered with such marks, but the scamp followed those his intelligence had selected, and they took him through a gate, and down a long walk, and into the park. Here no other feet had trodden that morning except those Tom Leicester was following. "This is our game," said he. "See, there be six footsteps; and, now I look, this here track is Squire Gaunt's. I know his foot in the snow among a hundred. Bless your heart, I've often been out shooting with Squire Gaunt, and lost him in the woods, and found him again by tracking him on dead leaves, let alone snow. I say, wasn't they useless idiots? couldn't tell ye how to run into a man, and snow on the ground! Why you can track a hare to her form and a rat to his hole--let alone such big game as this, with a hoof like a frying-pan--in the snow." "Oh, do not talk; let us make haste," panted Kate. "Canter away," replied the scamp. She cantered on, and he ran by her side. "Shall I not tire you?" said she. The mauvais sujet laughed at her. "Tire _me!_ not over this ground. Why, I run with the hounds, and mostly always in at the death: but that is not altogether speed; ye see I know Pug's mind. What, don't you know _me?_ I'm Tom Leicester. Why, I know you: I say, you're a good-hearted one, you are." "Oh no! no!" sighed Kate. "Nay, but you are," said Tom. "I saw you take Harrowden brook that day, when the rest turned tail; and that is what I call having a good heart: gently, mistress, here, this is full of rabbit holes; I seen Sir Ralph's sorrel mare break her leg in a moment in one of these. Shot her dead that afternoon, a did, and then billed her for the hounds. She'd often followed at their tails: next hunting day she ran inside their bellies. Ha! ha! ha!" "Oh, don't laugh. I am in agony." "Why, what is up, mistress?" asked the young savage, lowering his voice. "'Murder,' says you; but that means _nought._ The lasses they cry murder if you do but kiss 'em." "Oh, Tom Leicester, it is murder. It's a duel, a fight to the death, unless we are in time to prevent them." "A jewel!" cried Master Leicester, his eyes glittering with delight. "I never saw a jewel. Don't you hold him in for me, mistress: gallop down this slope as hard as you can pelt: it is grass under foot, and ye can't lose the tracks, and I shall be sure to catch ye in the next field." The young savage was now as anxious to be in at the death, as Kate was to save life. As he spoke he gave her horse a whack on the quarter with his stick, and away she went full gallop, and soon put a hundred yards between her and Tom.