Harry had never before in his life been so furious. To be hunted thus by
a whole countryside, as if he were a mad dog, was intolerable. It was
not only a threat to one's life, it was also an insult to one's dignity
to be treated as an animal. Although he was armed now the insult
continued. The call of the trumpet sounded almost without ceasing,
and the Union troopers uttered many shouts as do those who chase the fox,
although Harry knew that their cries were intended to rouse the farmers
who might head him off.
The chase grew hotter, but he felt better with the shotgun. It was a
fine double-barreled weapon of the latest make, and he hoped that it was
loaded with buckshot. He was a sharpshooter, and he could give a good
account of any one who came too near.
Yet with the trumpet shrilling continually behind him the huntsmen
gathered fast on either flank. It was yet the day when nearly every
house in America, outside a town, contained a rifle, and bullets fired
from a distance began to patter around Harry and his horse. The
riflemen were too far away to be reached with the shotgun, and it seemed
inevitable to him that in time a bullet would strike him. He was truly
the fox, and he knew that nothing could save him but forest.
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