Below, among the tussocks of the first meadow, the pack were whimpering, mingling, starting off on a false scent—returning, fawning, leaping up on Julia riding to and fro among them. The exasperated whipper-in beat at them. The four other riders came stringing over the rise among the sand-hummocks. “What’s up?” “Oh, dear, have they lost the scent?” They scattered down the dip among the dispersed and nosing pack. “They have it!” “No. Fake scent!” “Why on earth is there such a long break?”—Bessie Lewis’s treble. “_I_ didn’t carry the drag!” cried Julia, furiously, fretted with the delay. “Loo, loo, loo!” She urged the dogs. “Good heavens! I could find it quicker myself!” She couldn’t—or wouldn’t—rein the black in to the group gathered in the lee of the dunes, but darted away with swoops and stops beyond the farthest-straying dog. “Can’t we call it off?” urged Holden, looking anxiously at the encroaching fog. It was spreading out, a thick sheet raveling at the edges. “Not until we have to!” said Thair, well into his cross-country humor. “But don’t let the young madam get too far ahead.” Then Longacre—who had never taken his eyes from where Julia glimmered down the somber sward—“They have it! They’re off!” and was away after them. He heard the rest hot-pace behind, but he had a moment’s advantage, and, having saved his horse between ditch and fence, now drew away fresh as at the start. He had an open course—two miles of sandy turf—to catch her in. She had ridden down near the sea, and, following the pack, now zigzagged up hill. He, hugging the line of the dunes, cut off a corner, and so caught up with her. Hearing him coming, she spurred harder; but he drew up inch by inch, until, his roan abreast her black, they rushed into the face of the wind together. Hounds in front and hunters behind were forgotten; between the cypresses crowding down from the hills, and the oblivion of fog beating in from sea, they sped, wild with the elation of flight, unmindful of beginning, oblivious of end. Fog was already streaming among the fantastic trees of the Point of Pines, cutting them off in front; but Julia held an unswerving course until the damp breath blew on her hot cheeks, and moisture stood in pearls in her hair. The point went back from the sea in a low ridge, running up into a straggling grove of cypress. Its backbone of round, tumbling stones was cruel footing for horses. The pack made nothing of it, slipping over like snakes. Julia was for following, but Longacre turned a sharp flank movement that had the black headed off, flying up the point for the trees, the pack yelping a parallel course on the left of the ridge. Julia brought her whip down savagely on the black’s flank as she passed him. Longacre took an in-breath as they swept under the trees. The sun through the fine, blowing mist made a dazzle for the eyes.