Rounding the turnip-hill beyond, the leading
hounds were racing with a breast-high scent, followed by the pack in
long-drawn file.
'What a mess!' said Watchorn to himself, shading the sun from his eyes with
his hand; when, remembering his _role_, he exclaimed, 'Y-o-o-n-der they
go!' as if in ecstasies at the sight. Seeing a gate at the bottom of the
field, he got his horse by the head, and rattled him across the fallow,
blowing his horn more in hopes of stopping the pack than with a view of
bringing up the tail-hounds. He might have saved his breath, for the music
of the pack completely drowned the noise of the horn. 'Dash it!' said he,
thumping the broad end against his thigh; 'I wish I was quietly back in my
parlour. Hold up, horse!' roared he, as Harkaway nearly came on his
haunches in pulling up at the gate. 'I know who's _not_ Cardinal Wiseman,'
continued he, stooping to open it.
The gate was fast, and he had to alight and lift it off its hinges. Just as
he had done so, and had got it sufficiently open for a horse to pass,
George Cheek came up from behind, and slipped through before him.
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