THE HIGHLANDS OF THE SWEDISH DIVIDE. 253 
a burning spoor. Johannes thought it was that of a 
good bull; but I did not like the look of it—there was 
nothing hig about it. “ Perhaps ten spears,” might 
prove possibly eight, probably six; so we left it, and 
presently Jeta indicated a breast-high scent. We 
advanced upon it, and her keenness increased. 1 had 
strong faith in this grand old bitch, who never misled 
us on fox, marten, or other inferior game. Of course 
we had here absolutely nothing to judge by—there was 
no spoor to gauge the quality of the game; it was a 
direct scent on the game itself, and some good genius 
persuaded me to take the risk. We had just refused 
a probable ten-point bull; now we accept an unknown 
quantity ! 
The breeze now blew half-a-gale. The sun, shining 
in an azure sky, lit up a glorious panorama of wild 
mountain-land—half Norwegian, half Swedish. The 
next sixty minutes were equally brilliant, viewed as 
an exposition of fjeld-craft. Jeta was inspired; she 
kept us going at a run. But hunting prudence dictated 
the precaution of constant “ casts ” to right and left 
in order to guard our flanks. These, with a tearing 
scent, and a fairly open fjeld—(merely intercepted with 
patches of russet birch-scrub, barely six feet high, 
and minor clumps of trees)—I considered, in the 
impatience of delay, almost supererogatory; but 
Johannes’ method was a valuable object-lesson. It 
secured each yard of our advance. We had progressed 
some three miles beyond the point whence Jeta first 
took the scent, when our hound’s intense excitement 
plainly indicated that we were close up. “ Meget, meget 
naar nu! ” (Very near now!) whispered Johannes, his 
