Reynardine, Chapter 4

⁠​​​‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​​⁠First there was the minute red flash of the fox, slipping through the furze like a serpent, then the dappled flood of hounds, tails up, giving tongue like bells, then the master of the hunt on his great brown steeplechaser, then the huntsman, gay in pink, leather-faced with puckered eyes, on his little black mare. Then came the bunched hunt, the crash of ditches, the crackle of brambles, the thund