TUR HUNTING 151 



the mists pinnacled heights gleamed and glittered in 

 the sun. 



Spying out the land with my telescope I saw 

 a far-away ridge on which some moving dots were 

 feeding. Ibex, from their size. I counted six or seven, 

 but at that distance it was impossible to tell whether 

 they carried good heads or not. Between us ranged a 

 trio of chamois, with a carefully-posted sentinel. 



After a series of dumb-show explanations we decided 

 on a big detour, which should bring us round well to 

 windward. This jaunt took us the best part of three 

 hours, as the going was exceedingly difficult, in parts 

 almost unscaleable. We were so long in negotiating 

 and avoiding these tracts that on reaching the place 

 of the tur, no tur were to be seen. 



Through more ravines and rock-strewn valleys we 

 pertinaciously stumbled, stopping to lunch on mutton 

 sandwiches at the foot of a gigantic cliff, where high 

 over our heads we saw several tur gazing down at us 

 disdainfully. They felt themselves to be what they 

 were, safe from our rifles. Their fortress was impreg- 

 nable. We could hear them softly trumpeting, as is 

 their way when disturbed. 



I managed to make my companion understand that 

 I had had about enough walking for one day, and we 

 turned campwards, but by another route to the one 

 upon which we climbed to this roof of the world. 

 Going laggingly down a shale slope, feeling the weight 

 of my Mannlicher at last, my warrior picked out, with 

 the eye of a hawk, four ibex feeding far below us, 

 ibex who were evidently searching about for a suitable 



