It was, then, more than two years since the last chapter, and a still
cold day at the end of February--still and somewhat damp--in one of the
midland shires--say Clayshire. The dank hedges and sodden fields had a
melancholy aspect, which seemed to affect a couple of horsemen who were
walking their jaded, much-splashed horses along a narrow road, or
rather lane, which led between a stretch of pasture-land on one side and
a ploughed field on the other. The red coats and top-boots of both were
liberally besprinkled with mud; even their hats had not quite escaped.
Their steeds hung their heads and moved languidly; both horses and
riders had evidently had a hard day's work. Presently the road sloped
somewhat steeply to a hollow sheltered at one side by a steep bank
overgrown with brushwood and large trees. The country behind the
huntsmen was rather flat and very open, but from this point it became
broken and wooded, sloping gradually up toward a distant range of low
blue hills.
"Ha, you blundering idiot!" exclaimed the elder of the two men, pulling
up his horse, a powerful roan, as he stumbled at the beginning of the
descent. He was a big, heavy man with a red face, thick gray mustache,
and small, angry-looking eyes.
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