In passing the grove mentioned in the last chapter, by the edge of a fosse, or ditch, overgrown with bushes, and not far from some miserable huts, I thought I heard a rustling, and reining up my tangan and listening, I could distinguish the deep bass of a grunter, with the running treble of sundry little pigs. My heart went pit-a-pat; here, thought I, is a glorious discovery! I shall be the first to rouse the grizzly monster from his lair, and launch a spear at him. I wished, however, to be sure, and listened again—’twas a palpable grunt. “Yoicks! tally-ho!” shouted I, waving my hat, as a signal for my friends to come up and share in the anticipated sport. Roused by my voice, and a stone cast into the ditch by my syce, an unclean beast of large dimensions, black and mangy, issued therefrom, and, rather leisurely, I thought, for a wild boar, jogged across the open space, followed by a tribe of young ones. Now then, Frank Gernon, I mentally exclaimed, gird up the loins of thy resolution, and prepare for desperate deeds. Thus internally soliloquizing, I slacked my rein, put spurs to my tangan, and, spear in hand, rode furiously at him. La Mancha’s knight did not charge his windmill more valiantly. I pushed him hard, but he kept ahead, dodging, joltering, and grunting, and for the life of me I could not place myself in a position to give him the _coup de grace_. At length, by vigorously urging my beast, I found myself alongside; my arm was raised; the glittering javelin poised with as direful a presage as that of one of Homer’s heroes; already in imagination my burnished point had searched out the seat of life, and I saw the crimson tide distilling from the wound; I rose to deal the mighty stroke, when snap went the stirrup-leather, away flew my spear, and I, and not the hog, incontinently bit the dust. Yes, down I came, a thundering thump. Painful was the revulsion of feeling—I never felt more foolish in my life. Away went pig and tangan—and so they might, for aught I cared—whilst I, like a dying gladiator, lay prone on the earth, applying vigorous friction to my shoulder. In a few seconds, my companions rode up, to my confusion, convulsed with laughter, which they vainly strove to repress. “You’re not hurt, I hope, Gernon?” said my host, endeavouring to compose his features into a look of commiseration (a dead failure, by-the-bye). “No, not much,” said I, writhing with pain; “nothing to speak of. It was that confounded rotten stirrup; but I should not have cared, had I speared the hog.” Upon this, there was another volcano of laughter. I felt annoyed, and begged to know, fiercely, what they found so amusing in a friend’s nearly breaking his neck. “Oh, my good ami,” exclaimed the Frenchman, “you most pardonnez—but ha! ha! ha! you ave hunt the village pig, ha! ha! ha! and not the vild hogue. Oh, mon Dieu, je vais mourir—oh! oh!”