746 
THE AMERICAN-SC A N DIN AVI AN REVIEW 
But lie can hear no footsteps. Suddenly Storm turns, and going 
to the window stands on his hind legs with his forepaws on the sill, 
still growling and bristling. 
Then the hunter comes to life again in Peter. He throws off his 
coverings, slips over the edge of the bed, and rises to his feet. His 
body seems to have lost the power of keeping its balance, and leans 
now to one side, now to another. He staggers to the window, and 
then catches his breath; for there, at the edge of the wood, not a hun¬ 
dred yards off, stands a moose, perfectly still, with its side towards 
him. It lias enormous antlers, with ever so many branches on one of 
them, and few on the other. It is the moose he was hunting the day 
before—the magic moose. 
Trembling with excitement and fever, Peter creeps to his gun 
hanging on the wall. It is loaded. He tells the dog to keep quiet. 
The moose is still standing there motionless, long-legged and heavily 
built, with its gaze fixed upon the forest, seemingly deep in thought. 
The silver lamp in the sky shines full upon it. 
Peter has forgotten the fever boiling in his veins; for a moment 
the mist in his brain seems to drift away, and he is once more in posses¬ 
sion of the hunter’s clear judgment and power of quick determination. 
If he shoots through the window, the bullet is very likely to be turned 
aside and take the wrong direction. He raises the gun to his shoulder, 
drives the muzzle through the window-pane, and as a shower of 
splinters falls upon the floor there is a loud report, and the dog with 
a yelp runs to the door. 
The moose at the border of the forest turns completely round, then 
takes a few faltering steps, stops, hesitates a little, and drops to the 
ground. 
The door of the sseter-hut opens; a dog dashes out, and after him 
totters a man. But Peter is obliged to turn and go in again without 
reaching the moose. It is all he can do to crawl to the bed and wrap 
himself up. Now that the excitement is over he collapses, and at mid¬ 
night only his labored breathing disturbs the silence in the black 
darkness of the sseter-hut. 
Out in the September night lies the moose with the curious antlers, 
its body still warm. 
* * * 
A new day dawns in Bjodal. There is no smoke rising from the 
saeter where Peter Varpet is lying, but now and again a dog slips out 
and in at the door which is standing ajar. The moose lying at the 
border of the wood is now plainly visible, its legs extended and its head 
stretched out. The sky has clouded over, and the air is heavv and 
thick. 
Away on the western slopes two hunters are following the day-old 
track of a moose. They break up a pine-stump to make a fire, and sit 
