212 THE STALKING OF A STAG 



the wood, so continued for half a mile, crossed the 

 open slope of the basin, and here, owing to the 

 melted patches of snow, we lost them. My hunter, 

 by signs, intimated that the stag was in the wood 

 below us, so for two hours we sat watching and 

 waiting, with never a roar or the sign of a beast to 

 encourage us. I pulled out my glass and searched 

 every opening in the trees and every little patch of 

 snow on the opposite side of the basin. Not a 

 sound broke the stillness. My glass rested for a 

 second on the crest of a distant hill-top across 

 the valley. A wild-looking figure suddenly crept 

 into the focus and peered cautiously round. A 

 long gun, with its conspicuous pointed fork, stuck 

 above his shoulder ; his flowing garments fluttered 

 in the wind ; in his hand was a long-stemmed, tiny- 

 bowled pipe. A native hunter, now that the 

 harvest was over, out for maloo \ 



Presently, as the glass swung round, I saw 

 another squatting immovably among the rocks 

 above a likely -looking patch of timber. I prayed 

 devoutly that our side of the valley was not infested 

 and thanked the Red Gods that these two at all 

 events could not cross that evening. Far away in 

 the main valley I could see the shining stems of 

 young trees neatly laid in rows, which told of the 

 ubiquitous woodcutter. The forest, as I have said, 

 was thick, but sadly thinned compared with what 

 it was of yore. In every patch were trees rotting 

 as they had been left, stumps as high as a man's 

 chest still resisting frost and snow, and down in the 

 valley thousands and thousands of trees of every 

 size, but none of any girth. Each was neatly nicked 

 at the end and pierced with a chiselled hole, Each 



