g here, and have taken a
fancy to the name of West Quantoxhead's patron saint, Audrie, also
spelled that way."

"It's rather a pretty name," I ventured, feeling pink.

"One of the prettiest in the world," said Sir Lionel. I was
pleased--though I ought to have been bowed down with the burden of
borrowed guilt.

There was a bad motor road from Oare to the gateway of the moor, but
Apollo didn't mind, though I think he was glad to stop outside Malmsmead
Farm, where we had lunch. I suppose you can't expect such modern
creatures as motors and chauffeurs, especially Bengali ones, to
appreciate farmhouses seven hundred years old! I loved the place,
though, and so did Sir Lionel. Nothing ever tasted better than the rosy
ham, the crisp cottage bread, the thick cream, and wild honey the farm
people gave us. And the honey smelt like the moor, which has just as
individual and haunting a fragrance as Dartmoor, though different.

After lunch I wanted to see the Doone Valley, and the ruins of the Doone
houses (which, by the way, my namesake Miss Browne says were not the
Doone houses, but only the huts where the brigand-band used to keep
stolen cattle), so Sir Lionel said I must have a pony. I wasn't tired,
though he thought I ought to be, after our walk; but the idea of riding
a rough Exmoor pony was great fun, and I didn't object. Sir Lionel asked
Mrs. Senter (who had been making fun of the Doone story at lunch) rather
coolly if she would care to go, too; and to his evident surprise, though
not at all to mine, she instantly said she would.

They have several ponies at the farm, and Sir Lionel hired two, he and
Dick meaning to walk, and Emily intending to stop in the farm sitting
room nodding over the visitors' book, full of interesting names, no
doubt.

No sooner had our dear, roughly fringed little beasts been saddled, and
we swung on to their backs, than there arose a great hue and cry in the
farmyard. The stag hunt was passing!

Such an excitement you never saw. Nobody would have thought the same
thing had happened many times a year, for generations. The big,
good-natured farmer raced about, waving his arms, and adjuring us to
"Coom on!" The postman darted by on his bicycle, forgetful of letters,
thinking only of the stag; pretty girls from the neighbouring
Badgeworthy Farm, and Lorna Doone Farm tore up a hill, laughing and
screaming. "They'm found! They'm found!" yelled the farm hands.
Everybody shouted. Everybody ran, or