224 SHOET STALKS 



a hollow for the hips. In theory it is admirable, but in 

 practice exasperating. 



The next day was a blank, and the following one 

 jDromised to be another. Cyril and I had long returned to 

 camp. It was pitch dark and raining hard. Bouba was in 

 a state of trepidation that Findlay and Celestin would spend 

 tlieir night in the open, and wanted to start search-parties. 

 A good motherly old brigand was Bouba ! In vain I 

 assured him that my Pyrenean could find his way on any 

 mountain in the dark. At last a loud " whoop " proclaimed 

 at once their return and the cause of the delay. AVhen 

 they stumbled into the red glow, drenched with the rain, 

 this was soon explained. Findlay had slain the stag of stags. 

 "Mais que j'avais pear cpiand je I'ai vu ! " said Celestin. 

 He had made out with a glass from a long distance a single 

 tine of a horn in a thicket of young fir-trees, but for some 

 time was uncertain of its nature. Then the stag removed 

 all doubt by rising and showing himself as he crossed an 

 opening. In time they reached the place, but could see 

 nothing till Celestin suddenly met him face to face in the 

 thicket, and shouted to Findlay, " L'animal ! Lemonstre ! 

 Tirez ! tirez ! " but " l'animal " was off, and this was easier 

 said than done. For a moment he showed himself, and 

 Findlay missed him clean. Now what did this polite stag do 

 but cross the stream and calmly mount a knoll, where he 

 stood, fully exposed, as long as you please, at fifty yards. 

 That shot told. The stag went off, but they soon found blood. 

 Then followed a most exciting stern chase for the best part 

 of half a mile, the o;reat beast labouring- on throuoh the 

 thicket in spite of his deadly wound, while Findlay struggled 

 after, in vain seeking a chance to plant a second bullet in 



