On arriving at the river, I could at first see nothing for the high grass and bushes which grew upon the bank, but the din of the bay was just below me.

Sliding through the tangled underwood, I dropped into deep water, and found myself swimming about with the buck and dogs around me.

Smut and Bran had him by the ears, and a thrust with the knife finished him.
However great the excitement may be during the actual hunting, there is a degree of monotony in the recital of so many scenes of the same character that may be fatiguing: I shall therefore close the description of these mountain sports with the death of the old hero Smut, and the loss of the best hound, Merriman, both of whom have left a blank in the pack not easily filled.
On October 16, 1852, I started with a very short pack.

Lucifer was left in the kennel lame; Lena was at home with her pups; and several other dogs were sick.

Smut and Bran were the only two seizers out that day, and, being short-handed, I determined to hunt in the more green country at the foot of Hackgalla mountain.
My brother and I entered the jungle with the dogs, and before we had proceeded a hundred yards we heard a fierce bay, every dog having joined.