“Hush! Cuckoo. I _hear_ them; they have found!” and sure enough, their listening ears caught the distant whimper of hounds, now giving louder and louder tongue. Betty’s cheeks were scarlet with excitement, and even the pale Cuckoo was moved. “Here, Cuckoo, climb upon this wall,” said her friend, dragging her forward as she spoke, and nearly pulling her arms out of their sockets; “we shall have a splendid view.” And on the top of the wall, they stood hand in hand, panting from their recent run, with their eyes eagerly bent on Knock cover. Yes, here come the hounds streaming down, half-a-dozen little white specks, then the whole pack, then half-a-dozen horsemen, then the whole field. “Mike was right, you see he was at home after all,” said Betty, “but oh! he has been headed off by those sheep; he won’t come here, he will go for Bresna Wood, six miles away, if it’s an inch.” The hounds passed in full cry, within two fields of the girls, closely followed by the huntsman, a steeplechase rider, and a spare-looking whip, on a bony chestnut thoroughbred. “Here is George,” cried Cuckoo, triumphantly; “he is coming into this field. Does not ‘Clancy’ jump beautifully?” as the eager grey negotiated a razor bank, between two deep though narrow ditches. “And just look at this man--riding jealous”--as another horseman came at the same fence at racing pace. “Why it’s Ghosty Moore!” The words had scarcely left her lips, when a catastrophe cut short Ghosty’s career. His horse, already blown and over-ridden (but willing) took off too far, failed to kick the bank, and fell back into the near gripe, with a loud exclamation from his rider. He and his horse were both completely lost to sight; they had disappeared as suddenly as if the earth had swallowed them. A shrill yell from Cuckoo, piercing as a steam whistle, caused her brother to turn his head, and he beheld her running down the field, waving her arms like a windmill gone mad. Of course he must stop; he pulled in the grey with considerable difficulty, for Clancy was bent on pursuing! He would be furious if some nonsense of Cuckoo’s cost him what looked like the run of the season; he turned his horse, and galloped up to her. “What the deuce is the matter?” he demanded impatiently. “A man,” she gasped, “a man has been killed,” pointing to the ditch, from which there was neither sound nor sign. George was on the spot in another five seconds, and saw four shining, kicking hoofs, turned upwards, and heard a sickening groan, as of one in mortal agony. Here was a nice fix! Some fellow under his horse, that horse jammed fast in a narrow gripe ten feet deep, and no one to help him, but a couple of girls!