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lest we should warn the chamois of our coming. We 

 took our weapons from the wall, and silently we left the 

 hut. 



The scent of pines is sweet in the cool morning air ; 

 the dew lies heavy on alpenrose and holly-fern. We 

 make for a clump of larches that have gathered round 

 the crest of a steep crag, and have barely reached their 

 shelter when suddenly we hear a sound that quickens 

 every pulse and tightens each man's grip upon his rifle. 

 It is the whistle of the chamois. The forester signs to 

 us to wait while he creeps forward to reconnoitre. 



How plainly in the breathless stillness sounds the 

 roar of the torrent, how clear among the pines below 

 the cry of a solitary woodpecker, how loud the cowbell 

 on some distant alp ! 



The forester lifts his hand. One after one we reach 

 his side, and there, two hundred yards away, the chamois 

 is standing on the slope. He is looking hard this way. 

 His black horns are clear against the rock behind him. 

 The light of sunrise is warm upon his rich brown coat. 

 Defiantly his head is lifted, as he utters now and then 

 his impatient cry of anger and suspicion. Slowly he 

 walks across the rocky slope. He pauses for a longer, 

 keener look a fatal pause for him. For then there is 

 the sharp crack of a rifle. The bullet has found its 

 billet and the buck is lying lifeless on the scree. 



The sun that at that very moment rose in cloudless 

 splendour above the purple mountains came too late for 

 him. Those bold, black eyes will look no more upon 

 the face of dawn. The east was lighted with a soft and 



