Reynardine, Chapter 5

⁠​​​‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌​​​‌‌‌‌‌​‌​⁠For years he had been looking forward to this first fox-hunt in Ireland, and now with the red speck ahead of him, and the flood of hounds following it, and the great gray between his knees, it occurred to him that he was not enjoying it. Never was a morning better for hunting, never a keener scent, never a better pack; never had he pushed as powerful, as sure-footed a horse at a fence. Behind him