The huntsman, a sort of provincial officer of the district, who receives a certain supply of meal, and a reward for every fox he destroys, was already at the bottom of the dell, whose echoes thundered to the chiding of two or three brace of foxhounds.

Terriers, including the whole generation of Pepper and Mustard, were also in attendance, having been sent forward under the care of a shepherd.

Mongrel, whelp, and cur of low degree filled up the burden of the chorus.

The spectators on the brink of the ravine, or glen, held their greyhounds in leash in readiness to slip them at the fox as soon as the activity of the party below should force him to abandon his cover.
The scene, though uncouth to the eye of a professed sportsman, had something in it wildly captivating.

The shifting figures on the mountain-ridge, having the sky for their background, appeared to move in the air.