ng of the
hounds was nearer. She climbed the hard-wood hill at a slower gait; but,
once on more level, free ground, her breath came back to her, and she
stretched away with new courage, and maybe a sort of contempt of her
heavy pursuers.

After running at high speed perhaps half a mile farther, it occurred
to her that it would be safe now to turn to the west, and, by a wide
circuit, seek her fawn. But, at the moment, she heard a sound that
chilled her heart. It was the cry of a hound to the west of her. The
crafty brute had made the circuit of the slash, and cut off her retreat.
There was nothing to do but to keep on; and on she went, still to the
north, with the noise of the pack behind her. In five minutes more she
had passed into a hillside clearing. Cows and young steers were grazing
there. She heard a tinkle of bells. Below her, down the mountain slope,
were other clearings, broken by patches of woods. Fences intervened;
and a mile or two down lay the valley, the shining Au Sable, and the
peaceful farmhouses. That way also her hereditary enemies were. Not a
merciful heart in all that lovely valley. She hesitated: it was only for
an instant. She must cross the Slidebrook Valley if possible, and gain
the mountain opposite. She bounded on; she stopped. What was that? From
the valley ahead came the cry of a searching hound. All the devils were
loose this morning. Every way was closed but one, and that led straight
down the mountain to the cluster of houses. Conspicuous among them was
a slender white wooden spire. The doe did not know that it was the spire
of a Christian chapel. But perhaps she thought that human pity dwelt
there, and would be more merciful than the teeth of the hounds.

"The hounds are baying on my track:
O white man! will you send me back?"

In a panic, frightened animals will always flee to human-kind from the
danger of more savage foes. They always make a mistake in doing so.
Perhaps the trait is the survival of an era of peace on earth; perhaps
it is a prophecy of the golden age of the future. The business of this
age is murder,--the slaughter of animals, the slaughter of fellow-men,
by the wholesale. Hilarious poets who have never fired a gun write
hunting-songs,--Ti-ra-la: and good bishops write war-songs,--Ave the
Czar!

The hunted doe went down the "open," clearing the fences splendidly,
flying along the stony path. It was a beautiful sight. But consider what
a shot it was! If th