Again he fancies that he hears a distant sound--was it the wind?
No; there it is--it is old Smut's voice--he is at bay! Yoick to him! he shouts till his lungs are well-nigh cracked, and through thorns and jungles, bogs and ravines, he rushes towards the welcome sound.

Thick-tangled bushes armed with a thousand hooked thorns suddenly arrest his course; it is the dense fringe of underwood that borders every forest; the open plain is within a few yards of him.

The hounds in a mad chorus are at bay, and the woods ring again with the cheering sound.

Nothing can stop him now--thorns, or clothes, or flesh must go--something must give way as he bursts through them and stands upon the plain.
There they are in that deep pool formed by the river as it sweeps round the rock.

A buck! a noble fellow! Now he charges at the hounds, and strikes the foremost beneath the water with his fore-feet; up they come again to the surface--they hear their master's well-known shout--they look round and see his welcome figure on the steep bank.