Will threw his strong, keen eye forward, and his ears were pricked for any halloo or indication of the line of the fox; but nothing appeared to enlighten him. He then out with his horn, and was about making a wider and more forward cast than we had made down wind, when Trimbush sprang into the stream, and swam to a small patch of sedge and grass, not a great deal bigger than a man’s hat, and apparently scarcely large enough to hold a rat, when bang the fox sprang from the middle and away he raced, whisking the water from his brush like a maid trundling her mop. We rushed at him in a body, but might as well have attempted to get to the head of a stroke of soaped lightning. “A trick worthy of the devil’s own,” said Trimbush, laughing, “but I proved a match for him this time.” “How was it that we could not carry the scent down stream?” inquired I, as the devil’s own became lost to view over the brow of a short but steep hill. “Because,” replied my companion, “he reached the water some seconds before ourselves, and swimming so far _down the stream_, he gained the little bank of mud, where he squatted, with all the scent _washed away from him_. We could, therefore, carry it no further than where he took water, and as he did not break from it, the reason is obvious for our being unable to act otherwise than we did.” “I can’t think how you came to suspect that he had laid up there,” remarked I. “I never knew a fox to do so before,” returned the old hound. “Soil is about the only dodge a stag has to try his cunning at; but a fox rarely hangs in or about water. I, however,” continued he, “was prepared for any trick with the devil’s own, and my anticipation of a deep one proved correct.” We now came to a more enclosed country, and the fences greatly added to our momentarily increasing distress. The hounds dropped off one by one, and some, attempting to jump the steep and wide ditches, fell into them, and there laid, not having strength enough to crawl out again. It was fearful work, and how I managed to stagger forward is a mystery to me to this day. Trimbush did his best to cheer us on, and continually reminded us “that a kill was certain if we only stuck to him a _little longer_.” But this “little longer” appeared to be a very indefinite period. The winter day was waning fast. Objects at a short distance began to loom through the thickening shades, and the sun’s last rays had scarcely left a faint tinge of his glory in the west. Still the chase went on. There was no check, let, or stop. On, on, we flew: the pursuing and pursued. “He dies, by the Lord!” cried Trimbush, in perfect ecstacy, as we flashed a few yards over the scent, and then, turning, hit it off short to the right. “He dies, he dies!” cried he, throwing up his head, and waking a loud echo from his deep-toned tongue. “What do you mean?” inquired I, reeling with weakness, and certain that my remaining strength was all but spent.