rd and hillock, over briar
and brushwood, at that speed which kills most living things that dare to
race the "Monarch of the Glens." And the grays were in full pursuit; the
hunting fire was in the fresh young horse; he saw the shadowy branches
of the antlers toss before him, and he knew no better than to hunt down
in their scenting line as hotly as though the field of the Queen's or
the Baron's was after them. What cared he for the phaeton that rocked
and reeled on his traces; he felt its weight no more than if it were
a wicker-work toy, and, extended like a greyhound, he swerved from the
road, swept through the trees, and tore down across the grassland in the
track of the herd.

Through the great boles of the trunks, bronze and black in the shadows,
across the hilly rises of the turf, through the brushwood pell-mell, and
crash across the level stretches of the sward, they raced as though the
hounds were streaming in front; swerved here, tossed there, carried in
a whirlwind over the mounds, wheeled through the gloom of the woven
branches, splashed with a hiss through the shallow rain-pools, shot
swift as an arrow across the silver radiance of the broad moonlight,
borne against the sweet south wind, and down the odors of the trampled
grass, the carriage was hurled across the park in the wild starlight
chase. It rocked, it swayed, it shook, at every yard, while it was
carried on like a paper toy; as yet the marvelous chances of accident
had borne it clear of the destruction that threatened it at every step
as the grays, in the height of their pace now, and powerless even to
have arrested themselves, flew through the woodland, neither knowing
what they did, nor heeding where they went; but racing down on the
scent, not feeling the strain of the traces, and only maddened the more
by the noise of the whirling wheels behind them.

As Cecil leaned back, his hands clinched on the reins, his sinews
stretched almost to bursting in their vain struggle to recover power
over the loosened beasts, the hunting zest awoke in him too, even while
his eyes glanced on his companion in fear and anxiety for her.

"Tally-ho! hark forward! As I live, it is glorious!" he cried, half
unconsciously. "For God's sake, sit still, Beatrice! I will save you."

Inconsistent as the words were, they were true to what he felt; alone,
he would have flung himself delightedly into the madness of the chase;
for her he dreaded with horror the eminence of the