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And now the fox stopped short again in mid career, and crouched down; but Matyi did not leap over him as the flighty Armida had done, but, as the fox turned towards him with gnashing teeth, he snapped suddenly at him from the opposite side like lightning, and in that instant all that one could see was the fox turning a somersault in the air.
Matyi, seizing him by the neck had, in fact, tossed him up, and scarcely had he reached the ground again when he was seized again by the skin of his back, well shaken, and then released. Let him run a little bit longer, if he likes! "Bravo, Matyi! bravo!" shouted everybody present. This exclamation encouraged Matyi to show the spectators fresh specimens of his skill.
But now old Matyi, the wolf-grey, solitary foxhound, came to the front, and showed what he could do. Hitherto he had not very much exerted himself, but had let the others do what they could. He knew very well that a single dog would never catch this fox nay, two and even three would be no match for him.
"But where, then, is Matyi?" inquired Fanny, looking about her. "I am taking him with me." "What, sir, are you going to take part in the race? Pray do not!" "Why not? Don't you think me a good enough horseman?" "I readily believe that you are; but pray, for my sake, do not proceed to prove it!" "For your sake I will immediately dismount."
And yet the very best hounds of Squire John's Cziczke, the two white ones, and Rajkó, Matyi, big Ordas, Michael Kis's Fecske, and Count Gregory's Armida, to say nothing of the whole canine army behind them, were hard upon his traces. The fox began to go slower and slower.
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