Explore "A Monk of Cruta" by E. Phillips Oppenheim on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
A north-country storm of rain and wind had suddenly blown up from the sea, and the few remaining followers of the De Vaux hounds were dispersed right and left, making for home with all possible speed. The sky had looked dull and threatening all day long, and with the first shades of twilight the rain had commenced to fall in a sudden torrent. There had been some little hesitation on the part of the master about drawing this last cover, for the hounds had had a rough day, and the field was small; and directly the storm broke, the horn was blown without hesitation, the pack was re-called, and the huntsman, cracking his whip, started for home at a long, swinging trot. The day's sport was over.
There were only a handful of horsemen waiting outside when the signal was given, and with collars turned up to their ears, and cigars alight, they were very soon riding down the hill to the village whose lights were beginning to twinkle out from the darkness in the valley below. At the cross-roads, Paul, who had been riding in the midst of them, wheeled his horse round and took the road to Vaux Abbey amidst a chorus of farewells.