ON PLAIN AND PEAK 



From the nearest village, three miles away, comes 

 the sound of a band of music, and at intervals the 

 firing of a small cannon. It is hardly light, but it 

 is a great Saint's Day, and the Bohemian peasant 

 begins his religious observances betimes. It is a 

 curious accompaniment to our stalk. 



But Fortune smiles on us at last ! The stag is 

 there walking restlessly to and fro ploughing up 

 the ground with his horns and alone. 



More crawling and wriggling, and we reach a 

 great fir tree within a hundred yards of our game, 

 and I prepare for the shot. 



And now the stag turns. Nearer and nearer he 

 comes. Is he going to walk right up to us ? 



No ! he stops at about sixty yards facing us. 



There he stands a grand object, with his shaggy 

 neck, his head up, his nose thrust forward, the hot 

 breath issuing from his nostrils like steam and 

 stares at the tree that shelters my trembling self! 



But I am not idle all this time I am covering 

 that broad chest, and am gently, gently pressing the 

 trigger. 



A report a cloud of smoke and the stag has 

 wheeled round and is galloping away, seemingly 

 none the worse. But what is this ? A hundred 

 yards or so, and he pulls up, walks slowly on, and 

 then stands, his proud head hanging down. 



" He's hit !" exclaims the Prince. 



30 



