Andalucia and its Big Game 67 
shot, very fast, and intercepted by intervening trees and bush 
—the second barrel directed merely at a vanishing stern. Yet 
such was our confidence in the aim—in both aims—that not even 
the subsequent sight of our antlered friend jauntily cantering 
away down the long stretch of Los Tendidos impaired by one 
iota its self-assurance. For a mile and more we followed that 
bloodless spoor, far beyond the pomt whereat the keeper's solemn 
verdict had been pronounced, “No lleva nida—that stag goes 
scot-free.” As usual, that verdict was correct. 
An incident worth note had occurred meanwhile. On the 
extreme left of our line, a mile away, two stags out of four that 
broke across the sand-wastes had been killed; and these, while 
we yet remained on the scene (though a trifle delayed by 
fruitless spooring) had already been attacked and torn open by a 
descending swarm of vultures. That, in Africa, is a daily 
experience, but never, before or since, have we witnessed such 
unseemly voracity in Europe. 
