72 CHAMOIS HUNTING. 



" He cannot be far of, Berger," I said ; " look at the 

 blood. That 's the right colour — deep red ! Here he 

 stopped for a moment ; but how strange that with two 

 such shots he should still climb that rock [" 



Mounting over a block of stone, Berger looked down 

 among the rocks, and presently cried out, " There he 

 lies !" I soon joined him, and looked at the spot where 

 he had made his last effort and had given his dying leap. 

 We slid down and stood before our chamois. My first 

 ball had gone right through the body in an oblique direc- 

 tion downwards; the second too was w r ell lodged. We 

 laid our rifles aside, and Berger, taking out his hunting- 

 knife, prepared to gralloch the chamois. It was a doe, 

 that had no kid. I looked around while Berger was 

 busied with his work, to see the wild spot whither the 

 chamois had led us. It was a narrow chasm among the 

 rocks ; behind us the high, grey, weather-beaten walls 

 rising perpendicularly, and below a slope of barren stones 

 of all forms and sizes flung together indiscriminately. 



The chamois cleaned, I opened my rucksack, and lay- 

 ing it on the ground, put our chamois into it — all four 

 feet together, and the head hanging out of the opening 

 in the middle. Then, staff in hand, we went down over 

 that wild sea of stones. Though such a chamois as I had 

 shot that day might not weigh more than 401b., it is still 

 an impediment to one's free movements where the road 

 to be traversed is uneven or difficult : such a dead weight 

 settles down and hangs against your back more heavily 

 than would be imagined. But when once the road was 

 gained that led to the valley, we tripped along with foot- 

 steps as light even as our hearts were, and beguiled the 

 downward path with recounting the thousand episodes of 

 our epic of that day. It began to be dark as we reached 

 the meadows in the vale ; but that mattered little, for 



