It was the hunt returning.
They saw me at once, and galloped up, speechless from sheer
amazement. I believe my hands were loosened before a word was
spoken. The situation was painfully ridiculous; but my story was
partly out before they had time to laugh, and the rest of it was
gasped to the accompaniment of pounding hoofs and cracking whips.
Never did the Netherkirk Hunt ride after fox as it rode after the
Rev. William Teague that afternoon. We streamed over the moor, a
thin red wave, like a rank of charging cavalry, the whip even
forgetting his tired hounds that straggled aimlessly in our wake.
On the hill above Bleakirk we saw that the tide was out, and our
company divided without drawing rein, some four horsemen descending
to the beach, to ride along the sands out under Woeful Ness, and
across the Dead-Boy, hoping to gain the ridge before the madman and
cut him off. The rest, whom I led by a few yards, breasted the
height above and thundered past the grey churchyard wall. Inside it
I caught a flying glimpse of the yellow pony quietly cropping among
the tombs. We had our prey, then, enclosed in that peninsula as in
a trap; but there was one outlet.
I remember looking down towards the village as we tore along, and
seeing the fisher-folk run out at their doors and stand staring at
the two bodies of horsemen thus rushing to the sea. The riders on
the beach had a slight lead of us at first; but this they quickly
lost as their horses began to be distressed in the heavy sand.
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