v THE MUCKLE HART 99 



found his huge footmarks and his bathing-place. From 

 that moment I had no peace ; I watched morning and 

 evening in hopes of seeing my c heart's own darling/ 

 but for many days in vain. I shot more young stags, 

 but I despised them. Where, where, was the ' Monarch 

 of the Glen ' ? At last, one evening, returning late home 

 in a very wild, solitary spot where no white man's 

 foot had ever trod the earth in search of game, I first 

 saw the grand old stag. The sun was just setting, and 

 all the western sky was tinged with pink. The little 

 birds were warbling their evening song ; the old jackals 

 were just popping from their dismal holes. The belling 

 of deer was rousing the silent echoes of the grave, dark 

 crags, and all nature seemed to add its charm to the 

 moment. Brine was walking first and I was following, 

 puzzling my head as to when I should be rewarded for 

 my trouble. I don't know what made me do so, but I 

 turned my head to look at the lovely sunset, when a 

 sight met my gaze which sent a feeling through me 

 that the grim old Mysore man-eater would have failed 

 to do. My knees trembled, and involuntarily I sank 

 into the long grass. Brine like clockwork did the same. 

 On a rise of a hill, full in the light of the sinking sun, 

 stood the ' Muckle hart of Glen Strae.' His huge, 

 massive antlers stood out in grand relief against the 

 soft colouring of the sky, and his long matted mane 

 looked like what one fancies an old lion's, as he strides 

 about in the cool of an African evening. I was rapt 

 in the scene with such deep interest that I did not 

 think of getting at the deer. He stood quite still and 

 silent, looking at us with a long fixed gaze. At last I 

 thought of the stalk, but alas ! it was too late ; we never 

 should have had light ; so with a feeling that sickened me, 

 I was obliged to satisfy myself with watching the to me 

 fatal shades of night close themselves round my darling. 



H 



