Here at last the track moved in a circle.
"See," said the hunter, a suspicion of enthusiasm in his tone, "he has
been circling; that means he is looking for a lair. Stay here, if you
will, with the horses while I follow him home." And in a minute he was out
of sight.
I waited patiently enough for what seemed a long time, trying to catch the
undersong that thrilled through the forest, "the horns of elf-land faintly
blowing," the hum such as bees at home make when late May sees the
chestnut trees in flower. Here the song was a veritable psalm of life, in
which every tree, bird, bush, and insect had its own part to play. It
might have been a primeval forest; even the horses were grazing quietly,
as though their spirits had succumbed to the solemn influences around us.
The great god Pan himself could not have been far away, and I felt that he
might have shown himself--that it was fitting indeed for him to appear in
such a place and at such a season.
The hunter came back silently as he had gone.
[Illustration: SELLING ORANGES]
"All's well," he said as he remounted; "he is a fine fellow, and has his
lair most comfortably placed. And you should have come with me, but your
creaking English gaiters would have disturbed him, while my soft native
ones let me go within thirty or forty yards of his new home in safety.
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