Hunting's better, because there's blood.

We get too much unaccustomed to blood, in our prosaic, humanitarian, and bleating age.

Ah, as long as the nations love hunting, I shall not despair of them!" Just then, the crash of the horns and the thunder of the pack released drowned all other sounds.

The prince, erect in his stirrups, and raising his proud head and his tawny mustache above the bloody and cringing mob of the hounds, expanded his nostrils and seemed to sniff a battlefield.
The next day, when a few of us were chatting together in the street near the sunken post where the old jam-pot lies, Benoit came up, full of a tale to tell.

Naturally it was about the prince.