258 FOX-HOUND, FOREST, AND PRAIRIE. 



many hours as the human frame can stand (even if the commis- 

 sariat be up to all requirements) these are the portion of the 

 great Prussian force that lies between Metz and Strasburg : till 

 men and officers alike are worn almost to death, and are longing 

 for the war that they are taught to consider at hand. 



For ourselves again reaching a wood, again a forester stepped 

 quietly from behind a tree (as is their wont on all sorts of un- 

 expected occasions when men are carrying a gun or whipping a 

 stream). As a matter of course, in reply to his chief, he knew 

 of the whereabouts of roebuck three or four, and one a monster. 

 But these roebuck had apparently moved out, of hearing. We 

 toiled all morning, but attracted nothing save the mosquitoes, 

 whose " white wings never grew weary " of hovering round us 

 in clouds. So, when one o'clock came, we moved to a village ; 

 and did our duty upon cold chicken and Rheinwein (there is no 

 trouble in becoming a linguist when two languages assimilate 

 so comfortably). The foresters preferred beer, and required a 

 lengthier rest afterwards. But by three o'clock we were cat- 

 calling again ; and an hour later we had our first find of the 

 day. Again it was prefaced by many obvious signs of the buck 

 having pawed and stamped under the tree shade leading one 

 to suppose (1) that roebuck are not so plentiful in the woods as 

 they would have one believe ; (2) that they do not very fre- 

 quently and rapidly change their quarters. In fact, I should 

 fancy they might well be harboured more easily and correctly. 

 This time we must have pitched almost on his lair. At the 

 very first call my eye caught a movement in the covert some 

 seventy yards away ; at the second I could plainly make out a 

 red body creeping from the bushes ; and at the third I saw a 

 far finer buck than we had yet encountered cautiously advanc- 

 ing with head erect. Now he trotted forward. Now he stopped 

 to listen a miniature to the life of the red stag of Exmoor, 

 stepping sometime leisurely from his bed. Magnificence in 

 miniature, indeed it was. Now in bold happy triumph he 

 bounded nearer, stamped as he halted, and looked about him 

 in confidence and expectancy. Then the murderer's turn came 



