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"Dare we lose a day?" "I suppose not: heigh-ho!" As they went over Bursdon, Amyas pulled up suddenly. "Did you not hear a horse's step on our left?" "On our left coming up from Welsford moor? Impossible at this time of night. It must have been a stag, or a sownder of wild swine: or may be only an old cow." "It was the ring of iron, friend. Let us stand and watch."
Such were then the pigs of Devon: not to be compared with the true wild descendant of Noah's stock, high-withered, furry, grizzled, game-flavored little rooklers, whereof many a sownder still grunted about Swinley down and Braunton woods, Clovelly glens and Bursdon moor.
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