A Vanishing Sport 115 



reaches one side of the precipice and begins to 

 creep cautiously along a snowy ledge, the doe, 

 wandering on and invisible to him, has reached 

 the farther side, and turns round again towards 

 the centre of the rock. I signal to the Mehtar 

 not to shoot, for it is evident that hunter and 

 hunted are going to meet nose to nose on a 

 ledge about an inch wide, and the solution of 

 the problem will be interesting. Only a corner 

 of rock now separates them, and both reach it 

 simultaneously. A chorus of Ya allah burst 

 from the spectators in our gallery as the doe, 

 without one moment's hesitation, sprang straight 

 out into mid-air and went down. A gallant bid 

 for life it was, and suitably rewarded, for, lean- 

 ing over, we saw her recover her footing in deep 

 snow two hundred feet down, dash on to the 

 stream, across, and away to safety on the line 

 her lord and master had taken before. The 

 hound could do nothing but extricate himself 

 from the precipice, which done, he sat down 

 and barked foolishly. 



There was nothing more, and we returned, the 

 Mehtar full of apologies at the poor sport he 

 had shown, though, as I told him, the leap for 

 life that doe had shown us was a sight I would 

 have gone far to see. 



The beaters came in in groups, some not 



