To return to my diary. After the first fox had been broken up, and the brush presented to the Hon. A. Sidney, of Ingleby, the head being attached to my own saddle, we went to Highcliff, where we found the real old Cæsar, a great grey-hound fox. He broke over the moor at once, and we raced across to Bethel Slack. They drove down Wiley Gill, making the ravine ring again, as far as Slapewath, and then he again took the open for a short time, till he got level with Cass Rock. He then took along Guisborough Banks to where we found him, hounds running hard all the way. He now tried a change of tactics, and took a line that was to astonish all and to make most cry “_capevi!_”[4] breaking on to Guisborough Moor. Hounds followed at a terrific pace, leaving all but the blood horses far behind. By Sleddale he turned west and crossed the great bog. My brother (who was level with, or in front of me here) and I went straight at it, our only chance of getting near the now flying pack being to take everything as it came. In we went, both together, he getting to the other side with a frantic struggle; Faraway, mad with being thus checked, rolled, plunged, and kicked, so that I could not recover the reins after I had got on to my feet. After a minute’s delay, that seemed an eternity, we bucketed up the hill, while below us were others in the bog, looking in vain for a crossing. When I reached the sky-line, nothing could I see or hear. One moment of agonising anxiety, and I caught a glimpse of my brother’s hat, bobbing up as he rose a distant hill. As hard as I could take my horse, I made for this ever-blessed top-hat, and came up with him near the Piggeries, as he rode at the tail of the now almost silent pack, streaming in a file along the moor road. They ran as if it were a drag; it was real business. A mile like this on the straight, and then a swift, sure swing over the wall to the right, and they were flying over the Kildale Valley--my brother and I, in our glory, taking every wall and fence as it met us. A left turn, and in a minute we were going up the valley to the moors above Baysdale. Here were sheep pastures enclosed with hideous walls, wire on most, and all uphill. Sligo takes a line of barricaded gaps; Faraway goes slap-bang through the first gate, and then takes the timber decently and in order. Another bog, another stream, a few more fences, and then the open moor. How much longer can a horse go this pace? It is too serious a business to speak to each other as we pound down into Baysdale, the hounds getting the better of us. As we cross the enclosures by Baysdale Abbey, the one solitary ploughman in the out-of-the-world valley stops in his work to look at the rare spectacle. “Have you seen him?” I shout. “Ay! a gurt grey-hound fox.” “How long since?” “Seven minutes.”