Giving them a good holloa, we started off down the path at a round pace, and in less than a quarter of an hour we were at the foot of the mountain on the plain.

Here we found a number of people who had headed the elk (a fine buck) just as he was breaking cover, and he had turned back, taking off to some other line of country at a great pace, as we could not hear even a whimper.

This was enough to make a saint swear, and, blessing heartily the fellows who had headed him, we turned back and retraced our steps up the mountain to listen for the cry of the pack among the numerous ravines which furrow the sides.
It was of no use; we could hear nothing but the mocking chirp of birds and the roaring of the mountain torrents.

Not a sign of elk or dogs.
The greyhounds were away with the pack, and knowing that the dogs would never leave him till dark, we determined not to give them up.

No less than three times in the course of the day did we reascend the mountain to listen for them in vain.