Outside the
blast was steadily in progress at the stack; the clear glow of the flame
shifted over the nearby walls, glinted on the new yellow of more distant
foliage, fell in sharp or blurred traceries against the surrounding
night.
They could hear the short, impatient yelps of the dogs; but, before they
reached them, the hunt was away. A lantern flickered far ahead, a minute
blur vanishing through files of trees. Fanny turned to the right,
mounting an abrupt slope thickly wooded toward the crown. A late moon,
past full, shed an unsteady light through interlaced boughs, matted
grape vines, creepers flung from tree to tree; it shone on a hurrying
rill, a bright thread drawn through the brush. Fanny Gilkan jumped
lightly from bank to bank. She made her way with lithe ease through
apparently unbroken tangles. It was Fanny who went ahead, who waited for
Howat to follow across a fallen trunk higher than his waist. She even
mocked him gaily, declared that, through his slowness, they were
hopelessly losing the hunt.
However, the persistent barking of the dogs contrived to draw them on.
They easily passed the stragglers, left a group gathered about a lantern
and a black bottle. They caught up to the body of men, but preferred to
follow a little outside of the breathless comments and main, stumbling
progress.
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