TUR HUNTING 155 



bits of frozen snow, which was all I could think of. 

 He winced as I applied the chilly dressing, but it was 

 very effectual. 



On again, after my tur. Across a steep slope, 

 sparsely covered with snow which showed the pro- 

 digious jumps of the flying ibex, we tracked our quarry, 

 following closely one continuing trail, a lagging one 

 with all the darts and springs left out. Every heavy 

 footstep told how hard hit he was, and how spent. 



With a rush and a rattle of stones an ibex doe and a 

 very small kid got up from a hollow to our right, and 

 we watched them dash off across the broken country 

 as though it was park land. The kid was surprisingly 

 agile for so small a mite, and took gigantic jumps into 

 the air, tossing its charming head, kicking out its long 

 legs all at once when at the height of its leap. 



In a wild amphitheatre of grey piled rocks we came 

 on the tur — quite dead. His feet were tucked under 

 him as though his last leap were yet to be taken, his 

 beautiful head drooped with the weight of the splendid 

 horns. A prize, indeed ! Quickly I got out my tape and 

 ran it over the curves. Thirty-five inches, with a span 

 of twenty-two, and a girth of twelve and a half. I 

 measured carefully afresh. Still the same result. 



The Russian seemed very delighted also, for he 

 rested congratulatory hands on my shoulders and 

 looked so affectionately proud of me that I thought it 

 wiser to damp his enthusiasm a little by suggesting his 

 carrying home the prize. A bit of a facer, for, whole, 

 my tur was a fairy of some fourteen stone, I daresay. 



This idea certainly drove all others out of my 



