"This is our game," said he. "See, there be six footsteps; and, now I look, this here track is Squire Gaunt's. I know his foot in the snow among a hundred. Bless your heart, I've often been out shooting with Squire Gaunt, and lost him in the woods, and found him again by tracking him on dead leaves, let alone snow. I say, wasn't they useless idiots? Couldn't tell ye how to run into a man, and snow on the ground! Why, you can track a hare to her form, and a rat to his hole,--let alone such big game as this, with a hoof like a frying-pan,--in the snow." "Oh, do not talk; let us make haste," panted Kate. "Canter away!" replied the Scamp. She cantered on, and he ran by her side. "Shall I not tire you?" said she. The _mauvais sujet_ laughed at her. "Tire _me?_ Not over this ground. Why, I run with the hounds, and mostly always in at the death; but that is not altogether speed: ye see I know Pug's mind. What! don't you know _me_? I'm Tom Leicester. Why, I know you: I say, you are a good-hearted one, you are." "Oh, no! no!" sighed Kate. "Nay, but you are," said Tom. "I saw you take Harrowden Brook that day, when the rest turned tail; and that is what I call having a good heart. Gently, Mistress, here,--this is full of rabbit-holes. I seen Sir Ralph's sorrel mare break her leg in a moment in one of these. Shot her dead that afternoon, a did, and then b'iled her for the hounds. She'd often follow at their tails; next hunting-day she ran inside their bellies. Ha! ha! ha!" "Oh, don't laugh! I am in agony!" "Why, what is up, Mistress?" asked the young savage, lowering his voice. "'Murder,' says you; but that means _nought_. The lasses they cry murder, if you do but kiss 'em." "Oh, Tom Leicester, it _is_ murder! It's a duel, a fight to the death, unless we are in time to prevent them." "A jewel!" cried Master Leicester, his eyes glittering with delight. "I never saw a jewel. Don't you hold him in for me, Mistress: gallop down this slope as hard as you can pelt; it is grass under foot, and ye can't lose the tracks, and I shall be sure to catch ye in the next field." The young savage was now as anxious to be in at the death as Kate was to save life. As he spoke, he gave her horse a whack on the quarter with his stick, and away she went full gallop, and soon put a hundred yards between her and Tom. The next field was a deep fallow, and the hard furrows reduced her to a trot; and before she got out of it Tom was by her side. "Didn't I tell you?" said he. "I'd run you to Peyton Hall for a pot o' beer." "Oh, you good, brave, clever boy!" said Kate, "how fortunate I am to have you! I think we shall be in time." Tom was flattered. "Why, you see, I am none of Daddy Leicester's breed," said he. "I'm a gentleman's by-blow, if you know what that is."