For there, two furlongs on, he viewed On Holy Hill or Cheddesdon Rood Just where the ploughland joined the grass, A speck down the first furrow pass, A speck the colour of the plough. "Yonder he goes. We'll have him now," He cried. The speck passed slowly on, It reached the ditch, paused, and was gone. Then down the slope and up the Rood, Went the hunt's gallop. Godsdown Wood Dropped its last oak-leaves at the rally. Over the Rood to High Clench Valley The gallop led; the red-coats scattered, The fragments of the hunt were tattered Over five fields, ev'n since the check. [Illustration: Then down the slope and up the Rood, Went the hunt's gallop.] "A dead fox or a broken neck," Said Robin Dawe, "Come up, the Dane." The hunter leant against the rein, Cocking his ears, he loved to see The hounds at cry. The hounds and he The chiefs in all that feast of pace. The speck in front began to race. The fox heard hounds get on to his line, And again the terror went down his spine, Again the back of his neck felt cold, From the sense of the hound's teeth taking hold. But his legs were rested, his heart was good, He had breath to gallop to Mourne End Wood, It was four miles more, but an earth at end, So he put on pace down the Rood Hill Bend. [Illustration: The fox heard hounds get on to his line] Down the great grass slope which the oak trees dot With a swerve to the right from the keeper's cot, Over High Clench brook in its channel deep, To the grass beyond, where he ran to sheep. The sheep formed line like a troop of horse, They swerved, as he passed, to front his course From behind, as he ran, a cry arose, "See the sheep, there. Watch them. There he goes." He ran the sheep that their smell might check The hounds from his scent and save his neck, But in two fields more he was made aware That the hounds still ran; Tom had viewed him there. [Illustration: He ran the sheep that their smell might check The hounds from his scent and save his neck.] Tom had held them on through the taint of sheep, They had kept his line, as they meant to keep, They were running hard with a burning scent, And Robin could see which way he went. The pace that he went brought strain to breath, He knew as he ran that the grass was death. He ran the slope towards Morton Tew That the heave of the hill might stop the view, Then he doubled down to the Blood Brook red, And swerved upstream in the brook's deep bed. He splashed the shallows, he swam the deeps, He crept by banks as a moorhen creeps, He heard the hounds shoot over his line, And go on, on, on towards Cheddesdon Zine.