ELK-HUNTING IN NAMDALEN. 
229 
of several such on that face. These crags gave some 
trouble to scale, but in half an hour we had gained the 
terrace above that along which they were feeding down¬ 
wind towards us. Walking upright along this heathery 
slope (for it was out of sight of that below), “ Bengel ” 
soon gave us intimation of the proximity of the game. 
At first the dog drew straight ahead; then turning 
sharp to the left and straining on the leash, he led us— 
or dragged us—direct towards the ledge of our terrace. 
Then I knew I had them. Crawling to the verge and 
peering through its fringe of shaggy heather, I found 
myself within easy shot. Right below, scarce fifty 
yards away, yet dimly seen in the shade of the trees, 
loomed a mysterious form. It was the black bull. He 
stood upreared and stern- 011 , his forefeet on a ridge, 
while his huge head stretched up among the branches 
of a birch above. Two thin trunks covered his body, 
and amidst hanging foliage and chequered shade it was 
difficult exactly to distinguish outlines. It may seem 
strange that difficulty should exist at so short a range ; 
but big as he is—an old bull stands seventeen hands at 
the shoulder—the elk assimilates in marvellous degree 
with the changing forest-tones. In the bad light and 
drifting scud, it was chiefly the white legs and the 
curious white patch on the ever-moving ears that 
enabled us to make him out. 
Selecting the 12-bore Paradox in preference to the 
Express for close quarters, I waited for the bull to turn 
and expose the shoulder, though Ole the while kept 
whispering, “ Shoot, shoot ■— can’t you see him ? ” 
Presently the elk turned a quarter to left, and I placed 
a ball in line, as I reckoned, for his heart. He dropped 
