I stepped of the track to let them pass as they swept by, and "For-r-r-a-r-d to him! For-r--r-ard!" was the word the moment they had passed, as I gave them a halloo down the hill.

It was a bad look-out for the elk now; every hound knew that his master was close up, and they went like demons.
The "Tamby"[1] was the only man up, and he and I immediately followed in chase down the precipitous patinas; running when we could, scrambling, and sliding on our hams when it was too steep to stand, and keeping good hold of the long tufts of grass, lest we should gain too great an impetus and slide to the bottom.
After about half a mile passed in this manner, I heard the bay, and I saw the buck far beneath, standing upon a level, grassy platform, within three hundred yards of the river.

The whole pack was around him except the greyhounds, who were with me; but not a hound had a chance with him, and he repeatedly charged in among them, and regularly drove them before him, sending any single hound spinning whenever he came within his range.

But the pack quickly reunited, and always returned with fresh vigor to the attack.

There was a narrow, wooded ravine between me and them, and, with caution and speed combined, I made toward the spot down the precipitous mountain, followed by the greyhounds "Bran" and "Lucifer." I soon arrived on a level with the bay, and, plunging into the ravine, I swung myself down from tree to tree, and then climbed up the opposite side.