with their pocket full of learning. Hand it up
here, Tom; we'll see what it is. French, as I am no scholar!
Translate for us, Colonel Bracebridge!'

And, amid shouts of laughter, the gay Guardsman read out,--

'St. Francis de Sales: Introduction to a Devout Life.'

Poor Lancelot! Wishing himself fathoms under-ground, ashamed of his
book, still more ashamed of himself for his shame, he had to sit
there ten physical seconds, or spiritual years, while the colonel
solemnly returned him the book, complimenting him on the proofs of
its purifying influence which he had given the night before, in
helping to throw the turnpike-gate into the river.

But 'all things do end,' and so did this; and the silence of the
hounds also; and a faint but knowing whimper drove St. Francis out
of all heads, and Lancelot began to stalk slowly with a dozen
horsemen up the wood-ride, to a fitful accompaniment of wandering
hound-music, where the choristers were as invisible as nightingales
among the thick cover. And hark! just as the book was returned to
his pocket, the sweet hubbub suddenly crashed out into one jubilant
shriek, and then swept away fainter and fainter among the trees.
The walk became a trot--the trot a canter. Then a faint melancholy
shout at a distance, answered by a 'Stole away!' from the fields; a
doleful 'toot!' of the horn; the dull thunder of many horsehoofs
rolling along the farther woodside. Then red coats, flashing like
sparks of fire across the gray gap of mist at the ride's-mouth, then
a whipper-in, bringing up a belated hound, burst into the pathway,
smashing and plunging, with shut eyes, through ash-saplings and
hassock-grass; then a fat farmer, sedulously pounding through the
mud, was overtaken and bespattered in spite of all his struggles;--
until the line streamed out into the wide rushy pasture, startling
up pewits and curlews, as horsemen poured in from every side, and
cunning old farmers rode off at inexplicable angles to some well-
known haunts of pug: and right ahead, chiming and jangling sweet
madness, the dappled pack glanced and wavered through the veil of
soft grey mist. 'What's the use of this hurry?' growled Lancelot.
'They will all be back again. I never have the luck to see a run.'

But no; on and on--down the wind and down the vale; and the canter
became a gallop, and the gallop a long straining stride; and a
hundred horsehoofs crackled like flame among t