Poised to fly after his hounds, alert to hound voices, he paused asking if the Field was far behind. They were hungry, I replied. For a moment he looked crestfallen but the hounds were running and I swear I heard: Food? Let them eat common .... We’ll dine with the gods! Or some such thing, I’m sure what he said was as flowery in its own way. He galloped off, following the cry.
Now our hounds ran an amazing fox, racing along the dark wooded shoreline. Crossing broad corn-stubble fields where cannonballs once flew, the fox took flight before the hounds. Slipping through culverts and ditches slowed the hounds some but never did they lose the line. Past Jubilee’s stark grapevines we rode, over muddy creeks and steep little ravines. A run over two hours that took us into territory not covered in years.
