38 CHAMOIS HUNTING. 



that seems to come from his very inmost being, and 

 tells of consuming pain and longing, will he give vent 

 to the feelings that goad and torture him. I know 

 no sound to which I could liken it, though I can imi- 

 tate it well. It is not a roar, nor a bellowing, but a 

 rumbling sound, approaching perhaps nearer to a deep 

 long-drawn-out groan than aught else, which at last 

 is, as it were, hurled forth two or three times, in a 

 short, quick, impatient manner. At early morning, 

 while the stars are still watching, you may hear the 

 hollow tone from the hill-side, and, if you do not know 

 what it is, might perchance fancy it came from the 

 bowels of the earth, and that the mountain was in- 

 wardly convulsed by elements at strife with each other. 

 Indeed I imagine that an incipient volcano would make 

 some such noise. 



The throat of the stag swells now to an unusual 

 size. Week after week goes by, and his appearance at 

 last gives tokens of his spendthrift waste of strength 

 and of wild excess. His once sleek sides are sunken 

 in, his broad back has dwindled into narrowness, and 

 a sharp ridge is visible along its length. The haunches 

 that were so full and rounded have hollows in them, 

 the head is no longer stately and erect, nor in the 

 creature's whole mien and bearing is there more of 

 pride and majesty. The voice has grown thick and 

 husky, and a hoarse sound, void of strength or full- 

 ness, is uttered at distant intervals. Senility has 

 taken the place of youth; and of strength, decrepi- 

 tude. At such time it is comparatively easy to get 



