AFTER DEER 263 



neither eye nor thought to spare for the depths ; 

 and on you go, using your rifle as a balancing-pole, 

 until, all palpitating from your violent work, you 

 stand clinging to the rocks below the jagged pinnacle 

 that marked the end of your stalk. It is a moment 

 of deep suspense. Have the deer heard you as you 

 came scrambling along, or have they taken the raven's 

 warning ? You have the resolution to give your 

 beating heart and trembling hand a couple of minutes 

 to calm themselves. One single mouthful of whisky 

 to clear any lingering mists that still float before your 

 eyes, and then you quietly raise yourself to the edge 

 of the ridge overhead. And there is the stag, his 

 neck carelessly stooped as he ruminates in all the 

 placidity of a vigorous body and well-balanced mind. 

 You lay the fatal muzzle well behind his ample 

 shoulder, his keen eye barely catches the flash, when 

 the sound and the ball reach him together. The 

 next second, with gigantic bounds that leave his 

 companions far behind, he is descending the valley. 

 Missed ? impossible ! You knew you covered him, 

 and almost fancied you heard the thud of the bullet. 

 Yes, the effort was but the last blaze of life. The 

 next moment he stops, staggers, and falls so much 

 venison, hide, and horn in a patch of rank bracken ; 

 and there is your friend the raven, cheerfully croaking 

 the requiem, as he almost stoops on the carcass. Now 

 the sun bursts out in a flood of light, the ruddy hide 

 of the fallen deer and the ruddier tints of the withered 

 fern seeming to catch fire at the rays. Straggling up 



