186 DAYS OF DEEE-STALKING. 



" Mais cest etonnant celd. I who never make the miss!'* 

 " Perhaps your honour forgot to put in the ball." 

 "Ah! voila ce que cest, vous I'avez trouve, mon ami. 

 Le moyen de tuer sans balle ! Now, then, I put in the 

 powder of cannon, and there goes de ball upon the top of it 

 mort de ma vie ! I now kill all the stag in Scotland, except 

 a leetle, and you shall surproise much." 



He was a bad prophet, for he still went on, missing as 

 before, amongst winking hill-men and grinning gillies. At 

 length, however, the sun of his glory (which had been so 

 long eclipsed) shone forth in amazing splendour. " For- 

 tune," says Fluellen, " is painted upon a wheel, to signify 

 to you (which is the moral of it) that she is turning and 

 inconstant, and mutabilities and variations :" and the turn 

 was now in the Count's favour, for she directed his unwill- 

 ing rifle right towards the middle of a herd of deer, which 

 stood " thick as the autumnal leaves that strew the .brooks 

 of Vallombrosa." Everything was propitious : circumstance, 

 situation, and effect ; for he was descending the mountain 

 in full view of our whole assemblage of sportsmen. A fine 

 stag, in the midst of the herd, fell to the crack of his rifle. 

 " Hah, hah !" forward ran the Count, and sat upon the pros- 

 trate deer triumphing. " He bien, mon ami, vous etes mort 

 done ! Moi je fais toujours des coups stirs. Ah! pauvre 

 enfant /" He then patted the sides of the animal in pure 

 wantonness, and looked east, west, north, and south for 

 applause, the happiest of the happy ; finally he extracted a 

 Mosaic snuff-box from his pocket, and, with an air that 

 nature has denied to all save the French nation, he held a 

 pinch to the deer's nose : " Prends, mon ami, prends done." 

 This operation had scarcely been performed, when the hart, 

 who had only been stunned, or perhaps shot through the 

 loins, sprang up suddenly, overturned the Count, ran fairly 

 away, and was never seen again. 



" Arrete toi, traitre, arrete, mon enfant. Ah, cest un 

 enfant perdu ! Allez done a tous les diables" 



Thus ended the Count's chasse. Everybody was very 

 sorry, and nobody laughed, of course ; as for me, by my 

 troth, I will never follow Frenchman's fashion in deer- 

 stalking. 



