Seeing the direction they are taking, the field, by a short cut, come up with them by the mill, where they have met with a check. Across the chord of a bend the hounds recover the line, and taking to the bed of the stream pass under Nancothan Bridge. The otter hears them coming, but another check gives him a slight advantage, and surely now he will reach the drain. Vain hope! Between him and his objective, in the narrow passage between two rocks that contract the stream, stands the Earthstopper. On finding that the otter had stolen away from the lake he guessed it would make for the sea, and has hurried across country to intercept it. Breathless after his long run, he has hardly taken up his position before he sees the otter coming towards him, breaking the water in its frantic hurry. Bang up against his legs it comes, and as it retreats up stream, the excited hounds come round the bend and swim over it. Nearly exhausted by its efforts, the beast takes shelter under a bank facing its old path to the lake, and when Sir Bevil has rushed past, it dives, crosses the stream, glides between the flags, and following the track it knows so well, presses up the hill as best it can towards the plantation where the Earthstopper had found its tracks.
“Se—seen the otter, Andrew?” gasps Sir Bevil.
“Yes, sir, he’s gone up strame, he’s touchin’.”
[Illustration: A HAUNT OF THE OTTER. [_Face page 82._]
The horn recalls the reluctant hounds, revelling in the scent that the stream carries down. There they come past the Earthstopper. See how eagerly they are drawing the banks, how impatient the check makes them. Gellert, who has the best nose of the pack, is getting close to the clump of iris; the next moment his tell-tale tongue warns the pack that he has discovered the line of the quarry, and with triumphant clamour they breast the hillside on its hot trail. The game varmint has nearly gained the crest, but he can scarcely hope to reach the adjacent valley. He seems to be standing still, in comparison with the hounds, which, with hackles up, are now racing for his blood. He is not half-way down the plantation when they stream over the wall that bounds it. Troubadour, ever to the fore, gets a view of the beaten creature struggling on; but above the ominous whimpers of the pack the otter hears the roar of the fall, and this braces him to a final effort. Troubadour is all but on him as he springs from the high bank, and the next instant the spray flies from the pool as otter and hound strike the water.