Or you hear suddenly the hollow,
eager, violent barking of dogs; scared deer flit past you through the
fringes of the wood; then a man or two running, in green blouse, with
gun and game-bag on a bandoleer; and then, out of the thick of the
trees, comes the jar of rifle-shots. Or perhaps the hounds are out,
and horns are blown, and scarlet-coated huntsmen flash through the
clearings, and the solid noise of horses galloping passes below you,
where you sit perched among the rocks and heather. The boar is
afoot, and all over the forest, and in all neighbouring villages,
there is a vague excitement and a vague hope; for who knows whither
the chase may lead? and even to have seen a single piqueur, or spoken
to a single sportsman, is to be a man of consequence for the night.
Besides men who shoot and men who ride with the hounds, there are few
people in the forest, in the early spring, save woodcutters plying
their axes steadily, and old women and children gathering wood for
the fire. You may meet such a party coming home in the twilight:
the old woman laden with a fagot of chips, and the little ones
hauling a long branch behind them in her wake.
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