here, too, a gorse-bush baulked
her exit. Now, however, a faint, familiar scent seemed to fill the
passage, some tiny creatures moved and whimpered, and, with almost
savage joy, the vixen discovered her cubs, alive and unharmed, huddled
together near the furze. Quickly she carried them, one by one, into the
chamber; then, lying beside the little creatures, which, though blind
and helpless, eagerly recognised the presence of their mother, she
gathered them between her limbs, covered them with her soft, warm brush,
and, in a language used only amid the woodlands, soothed and comforted
them, while they nestled once more beneath her sheltering care. When she
had fed them and licked them clean from every taint of human touch, and
when she had shaken herself free from dust and removed from her brush
the man-scent left by the huntsman's right hand while "drawing" her, she
became more collected in her mind and more contented with her strange,
new situation.

Leaving her cubs asleep, she moved along the passage, determined, if
possible, to explore the thickets in hope of finding a young rabbit or a
few field-voles wherewith to satisfy her increasing hunger. The
entrance was still blocked with furze, but just in the spot where she
had found her cubs a couple of dead rabbits lay, and from one of these,
though after much misgiving, she made a hearty meal. She endeavoured,
but vainly, to dig a shallow trench in which to hide the rest of her
provisions; the floor of the artificial "earth" was tiled, and only
lightly covered with soil. Her efforts to scratch out a tunnel around
the furze-bush proved alike unavailing, so she returned to her cubs, lay
down between them and the narrow opening from the chamber, and slept.

That night and the following day were spent in drowsy imprisonment,
till, towards the afternoon, the vixen began to feel the pangs of thirst
and made fresh efforts to escape. As she was endeavouring to dislodge
the tile nearest the furze, she heard the tramp of heavy feet and the
sound of human voices.

"They be nice cubs," said the "whip" to the huntsman; "as nice a little
lot as ever I clapped eyes on. If only they can give us such a doing as
the old vixen gave us twice last December, they'll pass muster. Them
Gwyddyl Valley foxes be always reg'lar fliers. Their meat ain't got too
easy-like; that's why, maybe, they're always in working order. Any road,
their flags o' distress (tongues) don't flop over their grinder