198 
WILD NORWAY. 
rifle jump. Then he went off full-swing, sending the 
water flying like flashes of flame as he ploughed 
through the bog. The second shot was a miss—the 
merest trifle too high. The ball passed between his 
horns, almost grazing the head, as he went away, end- 
on. Nils meanwhile had managed to miss the white 
bull, and, reloading one barrel, I missed a third shot, 
galloping at near three hundred yards. We raced hard 
across the flat, but on reaching the slope beyond, it was 
clear that all was over—the deer were then crossing the 
river half-a-mile below, all sound, the two heavy beasts 
(as usual) bringing up the rear. 
It was a long shot and the light was bad; still I 
ought to have made sure of it, and would have but for 
one fatal mistake. To avoid “ stampeding ” the watch¬ 
ful hinds, hard by and already suspicious, I had relied 
on resting the rifle on my cap on the rock, instead of 
holding her firm forward with the left hand. The result- 
was she “jumped,” and the ball went anywhere. We 
watched those deer some two miles, and then turned 
homewards in silence and self-reproach. 
Here was a hotch-potch of mixed sensations ! First, 
eight blank days without seeing game or firing a shot; 
then, to-day, a grand stalk lasting near five hours, 
during which we often held the winning card; finally, 
taking a hazard and scoring a miss. Where now was 
our boasted dominion ? 
Nils made one remark. After tramping for an hour, 
he said, “ After all, he was ikhe saa meget , meget stor l 
Not so very, very big! ” It was kindly meant; but 
he was big, and we both knew it. Mentally, I had 
already taped those grand antlers (no photo annexed) 
