The incident had so greatly amused the squire that the very memory of it brought a smile to his face again and again as he rode through the grey dawn. By and by the sun rose, making a jewel of every dewdrop, and calling forth the carols of the birds. This changed the train of his thoughts. His mind reverted to Gaston de Foix, of all followers of the chase the one dearest to his heart, and after passing the farmhouse at Lanyon as he descended the hill to the millpool he was quoting aloud: “Et quant le soleil sera levé, il verra celle douce rosée sur rincelles et herbettes et le soleil par sa vertu les fera reluysir. C’est grant plaisance et joye au cœur du veneur.” “We turn in here, sir,” presently interposed the whipper-in, who thought the squire had taken leave of his seven senses. “Four Parishes, where the meet is, lies right afore ’ee under the Galver, and the Galver is that git hill up again’ the sky theere.” Whereupon Sir Tudor left the track for the moor lined with the shadows of the Carns. Awaiting him at Four Parishes[9] were Squire Tregenna, to whose gun-fire he had been exposed in St Ives Bay, Squire Praed of Trevethoe, a few yeomen, some crofters for the most part fairly mounted, and a promiscuous crowd of men afoot, amongst whom the fiddler’s pinched face peeped out between the rough beards of two tall smugglers, and three or four ne’er-do-wells were marked off by their careless slouch from the sturdier forms of half a dozen miners. After greetings had been exchanged, Sir Tudor appealed to Jim Curnow of Towednack, whose keenness and knowledge he had already noticed: “Where shall we draw first?” “Try the ground about the Galver,” said Curnow, “if there’s a hare left in the country she’ll be there.” So it was decided; and all moved off to the hill, where the pack scattered freely in search of the game. They were a level lot of hounds, very much alike to a stranger, yet as different in the eyes of the squire as were their names to his ears. He had named them himself, most happily Squire Praed thought, on hearing Sir Tudor call in turn on Melody, Corisande, Guinevere, Merlin, Cymro, and Caradoc. Awhile each hound worked separately, indifferent to all around, one would have thought, yet in reality keenly observant of the others, for as soon as Trueboy waved his stern half a score flocked to him. They are at once all excitement, as well they may be; they have hit the line of the hare, and are following it between the two big boulders where he passed on his way to Hannibal’s Carn, the tan splashes on their coats gleaming like russet gold in the slant sunlight, their musical voices awakening the echoes of the rocks, and thrilling every member of the little field.