One beautiful morning at the very
end of September our Stag was lying in the short plantations
above the cliffs in a warm sunny bed of which he had
long been very fond, when his ear was disturbed, as
had so often happened before, by the cry of hounds.
He did not mind it so much now, for he knew that it
meant at any rate that they were hunting some other
deer than himself. And it was plain to him that
they had found the stag that they wanted, for not
two or three couple but seventeen or eighteen were
speaking to the scent. Therefore he lay quite
still, never doubting that before long they would leave
the covert. And so it seemed that it would be,
for presently the cry ceased, and he had good reason
to hope that they had gone away. The only thing
that disquieted him was that the horses seemed always
to be moving all over the plantation, instead of galloping
over the moor. He was still lying fast when he
heard two horses come trotting up to within thirty
yards of his lair; and peering carefully through the
branches he saw them and recognised them. One
of them was the fair man whom he had seen so often
before, still riding the same grey horse, which was
grown so light as to be almost white. But the
man was greatly changed. His face was thin and
hollow, and would have been pale if it had not been
burnt brown; the tiny hair on the upper lip had grown
to a great red moustache; and the blue eyes were sunk
deep in his head. And he rode with his reins
in his right hand, for his left was hung in a sling,
so that he could hardly hold his whip. But for
all that he was as quick and lively as ever, and his
eyes never ceased roving over the plantation.
And by him rode the beautiful girl whom he had seen
with him before, her face aglow with happiness; and
she seemed so proud of him that she never took her
eyes off his face for an instant, except now and then
to glance pityingly at his wounded hand. They
pulled up not far from the Stag and waited.
And presently a hind came up, cantering
anxiously through the plantation, for she had laid
her calf down and did not wish to go far from him.
She blundered on so close to the Stag that he would
have got up and driven her away if he had not been
afraid of being seen. But she passed on, and
very soon the hounds came up after her. Then
the man brought the white horse across them, trying
hard to stop them from her line, but he could not
use his whip; and they only swerved past him, still
running hard, straight to the bed of the Stag.
And up he jumped, his glossy coat gleaming bright
in the sun, and every hound leaped forward with a
cry of exultation as he rose.
He went off at the top of his speed
straight through the plantation, for he knew that
he had the better of the hounds through the thicket.
But they ran harder than he had ever known since the
day when they had driven him to sea as a yearling,
and, as he could wind no other deer, he made up his
mind to cross the moor for the friendly valley where
he had lived so long. So turning his head from
the sea he leaped out of the plantation, and ran down
to the water below. He would gladly have taken
a bath then and there, but the hounds were too close;
so splashing boldly through it he cantered aslant
up the steep hill beyond as though it had been level
ground. And when he gained the top, he felt the
West wind strike cool upon him, and saw the long waves
of heather and grass rise before him till they met
the sky. Then he set his face bravely for the
highest point, for beyond it was the refuge that he
sought.
And on he went, and on and on, cantering
steadily but very fast, for though he heard no sound
of their tongues he knew that the hounds were racing
after him, as mute as mice. The blackcock fled
away screaming before him, the hawk high in air wheeled
aside as he passed, but on he went through the sweet,
pink heather, without pausing to notice them.
Then the heather became sparse and thin, growing only
in ragged tufts amid the rank red grass and sheets
of white bog-flower. He had lain in this wet
ground many times, but no deer was there to help him
to-day. Then the wet ground was passed and the
heather came again, sound and firm, sloping down to
a brown peat-stream. Never had its song sounded
so sweet in his ears, never had he longed more for
a bath in the amber water, but the hounds were still
racing and he dared not wait. So he splashed
on through the stream and up another ridge, where the
heather grew but thinly amid a wilderness of hot stones.
The sun smote fiercely upon him, and the air was close
as he cantered down from the ridge into the combe
beyond it, but he cared not, for he knew that there
again was water. He ran up it for a few yards,
but only for a few yards, for the hounds were still
running their hardest, and he must wait till the great
slope of grass before him was past.
So he breasted it gallantly, up, and
up, and up. The grass was thick over the treacherous
ground, but his foot was still too light to pierce
it, and he cantered steadily on. His mouth was
growing parched, but he still felt strong, and he
knew that when the hill was crossed he would find
more water to welcome him. At last he reached
the summit, and there spread out before him were Dartmoor
and the sea, and far, far below him the haven of his
choice; and the cool breeze from the sea breathed
upon his nostrils, and he gathered strength and hope.
There was still one more hollow to be crossed before
he reached the long slope down to the valley, but
there was water in it, and he might have time for
a hasty draught. So still he pressed on with the
same steady stride, hoping that he might wait at any
rate for a few minutes in the stream, for thirst and
heat were growing upon him, and he longed for a bath.
But no! it was dangerous to wait; and he turned away
sick at heart from the sparkling ripple, and faced
the ascent before him. And now the grass seemed
to coil wickedly round his dew-claws as if striving
to hold them down; and he tugged his feet impatiently
from its grasp, though more than once he had half a
mind to turn back to the water. But he had chosen
his refuge, and he struggled gamely on.
At last he was at the top, and only
one long unbroken slope of heather lay between him
and the valley that he knew so well; and he turned
into a long, deep combe which ran down to it, that
he might not be seen. Down, and down, and down
he ran, steadying himself and recovering his breath.
At every stride he saw the trickle of water from the
head of the combe grow larger and larger as other trickles
joined it from every side, and he knew that he was
near his refuge at last. Presently he came upon
a patch of yellow gorse, which had thrust up its flaming
head through the heather, and he plunged heavily through
it, knowing that it would check the hounds. Another
few hundred yards and he was within the covert, in
the cool deep shade of the oak-coppice, with the merry
river brawling beneath him.
And he scrambled down eagerly through
the trees and plunged into the brown water. How
delicious it was after that fierce race over the heather,
running cool and full and strong under the shadow of
the coppice! He hardly paused to drink, but ran
straight down stream, for his heart misgave him that
the hounds had gained on him while he was struggling
up the last steep ascent. And the water carried
him on, now racing down his dew-claws, now lapping
round his hocks, now rising quiet and still almost
to his mane, sometimes for a few seconds raising him
off his weary legs and bearing him gently down.
Only too soon he heard the deep voice
of the hounds throwing their tongues as they entered
the wood, but he kept running steadily down, refreshed
at every step by the sweet, cool water, and screened
from all view by the canopy of hazel and alder that
overhung it. At last he left it, and turning
up into the woods ran on through them down the valley.
Once he tried to scale the hill to the next valley,
but he found the air hot and stifling under the dense
green leaves, and he felt so much distressed that
he turned back and continued his way down. Presently
there rose up faintly behind him the deep note that
he knew so well of the old black and tan hound; then
the voices of other hounds chimed in together with
it, and he knew that they had hit the place at which
he had left the water. He heard the sound of the
horn come floating down the valley, and tried hard
to mend his pace, but he could not; and at last he
was fain to leave the wood and come back to the water.
Again he ran down, and again the friendly
stream coursed round him and revived him. So
he splashed on for a time and then he sought the woods
anew in hope of finding help, but he could not stay
in them long, and returned once more to the water.
At last, on turning round a bend in the stream, he
came upon a Heron, standing watching for eels, and
he cried out to him, “Oh! stand still.
I won’t hurt you. Stand still till the
hounds come, and the men will think that I have not
passed.” But the Heron was too shy to listen,
and flapped heavily away. Then he came to a bridge,
where his passage was barred by a pole, but he threw
his horns back and managed to jump between the pole
and the arch, without touching anything, and though
he could not help splashing the pole, he made his
way down without leaving the water.
At length he came to the end of the
woods, and here he hesitated, longing for some one
to tell him about the stream further down, for it
was strange to him. And he remembered Aunt Yeld’s
words, “May you never know what it is to look
for help and to find none.” But he could
hear nothing of the hounds, and almost began to hope
that he might have beaten them. So at last he
found a corner thickly overhung with branches, and
there he lay down in the water. And then whom
should he see but the Lady Salmon making her way slowly
up the stream, the very friend who could tell him
what he wanted to know.
But before he could speak to her she
said, “Beware of going further down, for there
is a flood-gate across the stream which you cannot
pass. Have you seen my husband?”
And he told her, “Yes,”
and she swam on, while he lay still and made up his
mind where he would go if the hounds came on.
The hounds indeed had dropped behind him, for the
men could not believe that the Deer could have leaped
the pole under the bridge, and had taken them to try
for him somewhere else. But the old black and
tan hound had tried to walk along the pole to wind
it before they came up, and having fallen into the
water and been swept on past the bridge, was still
trying downward by himself. And thus it was that
while the Deer was lying in the water the old hound
came up alone. He seemed to have made up his
mind that the Stag was near, for he stopped and kept
sniffing round him in all directions till at last
he crept in under the bank, caught sight of him, and
threw his head into the air with a loud triumphant
bay. The Stag leaped to his feet in an instant
and dashed at him, but the old hound shrank back and
saved himself; and then the Stag broke out of the
water, for he had made up his mind to breast the hill,
and push on for Bremridge Wood. He knew the way,
for it was that which the Partridge had shown him,
and he felt that by a great effort he could reach
it.
And as he slanted painfully up the
steep ascent he heard the old hound still baying with
disappointment and rage; for he could not scramble
up the steep bank so quickly as the Deer, and the more
he bayed the further he was left behind. Further
up the valley the Stag could hear the horn and hallooing
of men, but he pressed on bravely and gained the top
of the hill at last. But when he reached it his
neck was bowed, his tongue was parched, and his legs
staggered under him. Still he struggled on.
He was in the enclosed country now, but he knew every
field and every rack, and he scrambled over the banks
and hurled himself over the gates as pluckily as if
he had but just been roused. Thus at last he
reached the familiar wood. A Jay flew screaming
before him as he entered it, but he heeded her not.
His head was beginning to swim, but he still knew
the densest quarter of the covert and made his way
to it. The brambles clutched at him and the branches
tripped him at every step, yet he never paused, but
shook them off and went crashing and blundering on,
till at length with one gigantic leap he hurled himself
into the thickest of the underwood and lay fast.
After a time he heard the note of
a hound entering the wood, and he knew the voice,
but he lay still. Then other hounds came up speaking
also, and he heard them working slowly towards his
hiding-place. But as they drew near the thicket
the voices were less numerous, and only a few hounds
seemed to have strength and courage to face it.
He caught the voice of the black and tan hound speaking
fitfully as he came nearer and nearer, and more impatiently
as he struggled with the brambles and binders that
barred his way. At last it reached the place
from which he had leaped into his refuge, and there
it fell silent. Still the hound cast on, and
from a path far above came the voice of a man encouraging
him, and encouraging other hounds to help him.
But the Deer lay like a stone, while the hounds tried
all round within only a few yards of him, when all
of a sudden the old hound caught the wind of him and
made a bound at him where he lay. The Deer jumped
to his feet and faced him, and the old hound bayed
again with triumph, but dared not come within reach.
So there they stood for two whole minutes till the
other hounds came up all round him. Then one hound
in his insolence came too near, and in an instant
the Deer reared up, and plunging his antlers deep
into his side, fairly pinned him to the ground, so
that the hound never moved again. Then he broke
through the rest of them, spurning them wide with
horn and hoof, and crashed on through the covert towards
the valley.
And as he came to the edge of the
wood he heard the song of the peat-stream rise before
him, and knew that he had still one refuge left.
Reeling and desperate he scrambled out of the wood
and leaped down into the park at its foot. The
Fallow-Deer were not to be seen, for they had heard
the cry of the hounds in the wood and had hidden themselves
in alarm among the trees, but the Stag heard the voice
of the stream calling to him louder than he had ever
heard it, and he heeded nought else. And he ran
towards the place where he heard it call loudest,
and found it rushing round a bend, very smoothly and
quietly, but very swiftly. At every foot below
it seemed to rush faster, till fifty yards down it
struck against a bridge of three arches, through which
it raced like a cataract and poured down with a thundering
roar into a boiling pool beneath.
And the Stag leaped in and set his
back against some alders that grew on the opposite
bank, choosing his place cunningly where he could
stand but the hounds must swim. Then he clenched
his teeth and threw back his head, and dared his enemies
to do their worst. And the brown stream washed
merrily round him, singing low, but as sweetly as he
had ever heard it.
“Come down with me, come.
Oh! merry and free Is the race from the
forest away to the sea. The pool is before
me; I hark to its call And I hasten my
speed for the leap o’er the fall. The
Salmon are waiting impatient below, I feel
them spring upward as over I go. Come down
with me, come; why linger you here? You
know me, the friend of the wild Red-Deer.”
Then the voice of the water was broken,
for the black and tan hound came bounding down in
advance of the rest over the grass to the water, caught
view of the Deer where he stood, and throwing up his
head bayed loud and deep and long. And other
hounds came hurrying down through the wood, speaking
quick and short, for they were mad with impatience;
and bursting through the fence straight to the black
and tan hound they joined their voices in exultation
to his. Then a few, a very few, men came up hastening
with what speed they might on their weary, hobbling
horses, a man on a white horse leading them, and they
added their wild yells to the baying of the hounds,
while ever and anon the shrill tones of the horn rose
high above them all in short, quick, jubilant notes.
Soon some of the hounds grew tired of baying in front
and flew round to the bank behind him, still yelling
fiercely in impotent rage; and the maddening clamour
rang far up the valley through the sweet, still evening.
The Fallow-Deer huddled themselves close among the
trees, and the pigeons hushed their cooing and flew
swift and high in the air from the terror of the sound.
But the Stag stood unmoved in the midst of the baying
ring, with his noble head thrown back and his chin
raised scornfully aloft, in all the pride and majesty
of defiance.
But all the while the stream kept
pressing him downward inch by inch, very gently but
very surely. Once a hound, in his impatience,
burst through the branches and ran out on the stem
of an alder almost on to his back, so that he was
obliged to move down still lower. And there the
stream pressed him still more strongly, though never
unkindly, and he went downward faster than before;
and he heard the full voice of the torrent, as it
thundered over the fall, chanting to him grand and
sonorous in a deep tone of command.
“Nay, tarry no longer; come
down, come down To the pool that invites
you, still, peaceful, and brown. One plunge
through the rush of the shivering spray And
the dark, solemn eddies shall bear you away From
the rustle of bubbles, the hissing of foam, To
a haven of rest, and a long, long home. Come
down with me, come; your refuge is near; I
call you, the friend of the wild Red-Deer.”
And he heard it and yielded.
The water rose higher, and the strength of the current
grew more urgent about him, till at length the stream
lifted him gently off his weary feet and bore him silently
down. For a moment he strove with all his might
to stem the smooth, impetuous tide as it swept him
on; then he gave himself up to the friendly waters,
and throwing his head high in air in a last defiance,
he went down swiftly over the fall.
And the wild baying ceased; and he
heard nothing but the chorus of the waters in his
ears. Once he struggled to raise his head, and
the great brown antlers came looming up for a moment
through the eddies; but as he passed down to the deep,
still pool beyond the fall, the water called to him
so kindly that he could not but obey.
“From my wild forest-cradle,
through deep and through shoal, You have
followed me far, and have reached to the goal.
Now the gallop is ended, the chase it is run,
The struggle is over, the victory won.
The fall is o’er-leaped and the rapids
are passed, Come rest on my bosom untroubled
at last. Nay, raise not your head, come,
bury it here; No friend like the stream
to the wild Red-Deer.”
So the waters closed over the stern,
sharp antlers, and he bowed his head and was at peace.
Then men came and pulled the great
still body out of the water; and they took his head
and hung it up in memory of so great a run and so
gallant a Stag. But their triumph was only over
the empty shell of him, for his spirit had gone to
the still brown pool. And indeed the stream has
received many another wild deer besides him, which,
I suspect, is the reason why ferns, that love the
water, take the shape of stags’ horns and of
harts’ tongues. So there he remains;
for he had fought his fight and run his course; and
he asks for nothing better than to hear the river
sing to him all the day long.