We had the slow-hounds with
us, and that, as it seems to me, is better sport than with the
swift gaze-hounds I rode after on the Welsh hills with Eric. It is
good to hear the deep notes of them as they light on the scent of
the quarry in the covers, and to see them puzzle out a lost line in
the open, and to ride with the crash and music of the full pack
ahead of one in the ears, as the deer doubles no longer, but trusts
to speed for escape.
Those who were with us were friends of mine and of the ealdorman,
and there were three ladies in the party--one of these being, of
course, Elfrida.
Erpwald was in close attendance on her, a matter which was taken
for granted by every one at this time. He was to go with the court
to Winchester, and thence he and I would ride to Eastdean.
So we hunted through the forenoon, taking one deer, and then rode
onward until we came to the place where the great Cheddar gorge
cleaves the Mendips across from summit to base, sheer and terrible.
The village lies at the foot of the gorge on the western side of
the hills, half sheltered between the first cliffs of the vast
chasm, but on the hillside above is a deep cover that climbs upward
to the summit, and it was said that a good deer had been harboured
there.
So presently, while the hounds were drawing this wood below us, I
and Elfrida and Erpwald found ourselves together and waiting on the
hilltop at the edge of the gorge.
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