Yet the whole plan came to nought. On reaching the chantry he suddenly leapt aside as if from an ambuscade, for he found himself in the presence of man. There on a rock sat an antiquary sketching the ruin, and so engrossed by his task that he never saw the hare. Even if he had he would not have raised a finger to scare it, much less betray its refuge to the hounds. But the hare’s faith in man was gone. He fled down the hill towards Brea Farm, save for the thud of the flail in the barn silent as in winter, and from thence to the moor, over which he rather loped than galloped, for he was getting exhausted. Meanwhile Sir Tudor had reached the chantry. Despite the excitement of the chase he reined in his mare, and looked for the first time on Cornwall’s fairest scene. “Fine subject for a canvas,” he said, addressing the antiquary. “Yes, but not half so impressive as this old oratory, with its memories.” “Perhaps you are right,” said the squire, riding on again after the hounds, now streaming over the boundary wall. The mare took him over the wall with the greatest ease, and soon was cantering along the bridle-track, watched by Andrew, whom the music of the hounds had drawn to the barn steps. “Have you seen her?” asked Sir Tudor, when he reached the farmyard. “Seed what, sir?” “The hare?” “No, sir, theere ed’n such a crittur in the country.” Later the fiddler came running past. “Where are they, Andrew?” he asked breathlessly. “Gone right over the ‘curley’ moor straight for Hayl Kimbra Pool. But what’s the hurry? Stop and have a bit of croust,[10] a bit o’ heavy cake.”[11] “Lor’ bless the boy, ’tes no time for feasting nor fiddling. Did ’ee ever hear such pretty music as they little dogs give out?” And without waiting for an answer the fiddler went off as if his life depended on being in at the finish. Andrew had directed him well, for the hare had gone to the pool where he had his first swim. The hounds following, crossed it as if nothing could live before them; but on the far side of the moor, where beyond Trevescan it slopes gently to the sea, they were in difficulties. The hare had run along a stone wall, returned a score yards on his trail, leapt into the track it bordered, and gone off in the direction of his cliff retreat, now his goal. There for the first time the squire came to their aid. He solved the mystery of the wall in vain, for the track held no scent, and he was face to face with defeat. Hearing a shout, he looked up and saw a man on a bank waving his hat. “Did you see her, my man?” said he, riding up to him. “I did, sir, and flinged this pollack at her, and turned her.” “Was she done up?” “Not a bit, for when I heaved the fish, she took down along over they rocks there, like a ball of fire. But if you’re going down to the point, you’d better leave hoss and hounds behind. ’Tes no place for they.”