218 AUGUST ON THE MOORS 



mind and body, or little left of it but a slight stiffness 

 in the lower extremities ; and half an hour of leisurely 

 exercise will soon loosen the knots your sinews have been 

 gathering themselves in. Besides, there is a bit of 

 a breeze sprung up, and the scent is fresher, and the 

 sport likely to be excellent ; altogether, the afternoon 

 promises at least as well as the morning. Nor is the 

 promise belied, and you are tempted to linger. The 

 sun is sloping to the west as you reach the black moss 

 that lies in the water-shed between the valley you have 

 been shooting along and the valley you are returning to. 

 You strike the sinuous path that threads its treacherous 

 flow a path very much resembling that by which 

 Bunyan's pilgrim picked his way through the Valley 

 of the Shadow of Death. You have had somewhat 

 ugly walking for some time back : among moss-holes 

 with treacherous coverings of green, when a single false 

 step may make it a case of over the ankle, over the ears. 

 But here it is altogether a different thing. The slimy 

 soil of the quaking bog may settle under your heavy 

 boots at any moment, and you may find your resting- 

 place fifty feet beneath the surface, lying peacefully 

 until future generations of improvers disinter you, 

 looking much as you look to-day, a little browner 

 perhaps, thanks to the antiseptic properties of the peat. 

 So rarely is the spot visited for the shepherd need 

 seldom come where no sheep would dream of straying 

 after pasture that the instincts of the wary red deer 

 tell him he may sleep secure when the odds are so long 

 against surprise. As a case in point, we actually catch 



