Outing . th it—or was it imagination? Any-way, when the cloud shadow had gone—and that was in almost the same timeas a man would take to hold a deepbreath—there was no longer the steadyglow of those burning coals within thecleft. There was nothing at all, theplace was empty, and—the Saint wasshambling downhill through dense covera hundred yards away. I do not pretend to know how he gotthere, this beast of evasive daring. Hewas just there—one moment in his den,the next drifting, drifting, a shadowamong a dozen shadows, in and out overthe mottled floor of moss, between thecrawling stems of age-o
Outing . th it—or was it imagination? Any-way, when the cloud shadow had gone—and that was in almost the same timeas a man would take to hold a deepbreath—there was no longer the steadyglow of those burning coals within thecleft. There was nothing at all, theplace was empty, and—the Saint wasshambling downhill through dense covera hundred yards away. I do not pretend to know how he gotthere, this beast of evasive daring. Hewas just there—one moment in his den,the next drifting, drifting, a shadowamong a dozen shadows, in and out overthe mottled floor of moss, between thecrawling stems of age-old heather—downhill to the still and stately gloomof the woods. Once within the cathedral silence ofthe columned aisles the beast was a fine smell of pines in theair and pine needles crunched above him the wind was singing aromping song to itself among the tops ofthe trees. It sounded like the far-awaydirge of surf trampling on a sandy was no other !&:?: HE CARRIED IT TWO HUNDRED YARDS AWAY AND HID IT PAST ALL HOPE OFFINDING IN THE BOWELS OF A HOLLOW TREE. Suddenly dim stars floated in thespaces between the grained boles: twinlights swung from trunk to was a whisper as of fairy feetflitting. One could, in that hour andsetting, have believed anything, believedeven that he had surprised the fairies ofthe place at their gambols. But theywere no fairies. The moonlight said so. Twenty yards away it was pleased toweave a patch of silver tracery shiningthrough the branched roof, and a brownform trotted—trotted, I say, driftedlight as a wisp of smoke across it. In-stantly, without one seconds pause, theSaint had projected himself, swift as abolt, across the intervening space, buthe was met by a tearing blow on theface, and the beast that he had sprungat was not there. It was—it had been—a roebuck. None but the roe couldhave executed that stealthy flitting andthat perfect rebuff and evasion. Of allthe deer, non
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade, booksubjectsports, booksubjecttravel
