Sniffing at my footprints where they had just crossed those of the hare was a stoat, long and lithe and cruel.

I knew it would not leave its quarry until it had it fast by the throat, and the hare knew it also by some instinct that is not to be fathomed, for I suppose that no hare, save by the merest chance, ever escaped that pursuer.

The creature seemed puzzled by my footprint, and sat up, turning its sharp eyes right and left until it spied me; but when it did so it was not feared of me, but took up the trail of the hare again.

And by that time I was ready, and my hand was steady, and the shaft sped and smote it fairly, and the hare's one chance had come to it.

I sprang forward with the whoop of the Saxon hunter, and took up and admired my prey, not heeding its scent at all.