The wild-cat had barely reached the timber line when his pursuers took up his trail in earnest. His progress across the field had been slow, for the ground was yielding, and the burden which he carried was almost half as large as himself. For a while he ran parallel to the open, husbanding his strength for greater need, then took a course up the knob-side directly opposite the way he had come and away from his lair. He heard the dog-pack after him; he heard them change their course at the timber line, and he knew that they were not to be lost by any simple ruse. The enmity of years was in their hearts and their teeth were whetted for his death. They were drawing nearer every moment, for they were fleet of foot and had nothing to hold them back. The dead weight in his vise-like teeth dragged at his neck, and as he ran the King made up his mind. He must leave his prize if he would escape, for they were running two yards to his one. He stopped for the shortest instant by the side of a fallen tree, thrust his muzzle into the torn neck of his kill and drank of the blood, then, relieved of his load, he sped up the hill with long, quick bounds. His enemies were pressing him hard. He could hear them crashing through the twigs and bushes, and their short, sharp cries told him that they were straining every muscle to overtake him. No matter; they had done it before, and he was ahead of them now and still King of the Northern Slope. Nearer and nearer the top of the knob they came, and the cat redoubled his efforts, for a cunning scheme had crept into his subtle brain. He reached the crest twenty yards in advance of the closest hound, dashed across a small plateau terminating in a cliff, then swerved to the left, and was lost to sight as the pack came panting on his heels with their noses close to earth. The lead hound went sheer over the cliff with a howl of dismay; the one immediately behind him braced his fore legs and ploughed two furrows in the leafy loam, stopping with his dripping tongue hanging over the chasm. In the momentary confusion which followed the hunted gained twenty more yards, and then the chase swept on again hotter than before. Along the crest of the range the King led them, his eyes glowing like twin headlights, and his muscles playing free and strong under his loose skin. But his strength was leaving him. The long winter fasts, together with the weight which he had carried that night for the first mile of his flight, combined to weaken that tenacious strength which was his birthright. His blood-enemies were fresh from sleep and strong from food, and their tireless limbs were gradually overtaking him. He did not know how desperately near they were till the sharp clicking of teeth at his hind-quarters told him that the chase was nearly done. There was one alternative now—the last, and he took it. Before him rose a large oak tree. Gathering his spent energies he leaped upon it, ran half way up the trunk, then crouched on a limb with the breath rasping in his throat and a dreadful aching in his strained lungs.