A NIGHT VIGIL. 283 



night advanced, the occasional eerie hoot of a great horned 

 owl, or the flit of a flying squirrel among the overhanging 

 branches, where he nibbled the pine-cones, only made the 

 stillness more impressive. Our surroundings, too, became more 

 weird-looking as the rising moon shed a dim ghastly light on 

 the gnarled and crooked stems of the silver birch-trees stand- 

 ing here and there like white spectres in the gloomy cloisters 

 of the pine-forest that begirt the pool. Sometimes our flag- 

 ging hopes would be raised as the far-off bellowing of a stag 

 was intermittently borne towards us on the night breeze 

 that gently rocked the pine-tops, but only again to sink with 

 the sound as it gradually died away in the distance. This 

 was all very romantic and exciting, until towards morning I 

 grew so sleepy that I could no longer keep my eyes or ears 

 open. And when, at grey frosty dawn, we returned, chilled 

 and disappointed, from our night vigils, all my ideas of their 

 romance had evaporated. 



That evening about dusk I wounded a stag, which, though 

 not a very fine specimen, would have been a welcome addition 

 to our larder which the villagers had nearly emptied had 

 we not lost him in the gathering darkness. We moved next 

 day back to the locality where, amongst the numerous fresh 

 tracks, we had lost those of the big wounded stag, our goods 

 ;ind chattels being sent round by an easier route. In the 

 afternoon it was snowing thickly, when we heard the bellow- 

 ing of a stag evidently a traveller on a hillside below us, 

 and caught a glimpse of the restless, wandering beast and a 

 good one he was as he quickly traversed some open ground. 

 We ran round, and tried in vain to head him l>efore he dis- 

 appeared in some heavy forest where following him was 

 hopeless. It was nightfall when we reached our camp, 

 which had been pitched beside the dilapidated ruins of a 

 shieling, long ago deserted by the herdsmen, and under some 

 tall black-looking cypress-trees at the bottom of a silent forest- 

 dad glen, where sunshine could have been but little known, 



