fact being that at the moment I felt absolutely done to the world and was quite incapable of shooting straight. The big stag had slightly moved and was now standing about three-quarters end on, a very difficult shot. I raised the rifle, sighted the stag, and pressed the trigger. There was a sound of a little click, and that was all. “A misfire!” I muttered below my breath. “Are you sure you loaded the rifle after lunch?” “Yes, sir, I am,” said Macdougall. “Very well, then,” I replied, “I’ll try him with the second barrel,” and raised the rifle. “Don’t fire,” said Macdougall; “we’d better make sure.” With some difficulty, owing to the position I was in and the necessity of keeping as flat as possible, I opened the rifle, and lo and behold it was empty! I loaded it as quickly as I could. Meantime, the stag had moved on a few yards, and was now standing broadside on. I put up the rifle, took a steady aim, and fired. There was a thud; the stag gave a start and then moved slowly forward. “You have him,” said Macdougall. I said, “I don’t know that.” “He’s varra sick,” said Macdougall, “and will never get over the hill.” The stag had evidently been shot in the stomach. He was looking very sick, poor beast, and was walking slowly forward, stopping every now and then. All the other deer had disappeared as if by magic except the little stag, who kept some distance in front of the big stag, constantly looking round at him, evidently loth to leave his lord and master. I said, “I’d better fire again,” and put up the 250 yards sight, as I estimated that the stag was now nearly 300 yards from us, and fired. “Over him, sir,” whispered Macdougall. “We must get a bit nearer,” I said. “I’m afraid if we move he’ll see us and begin to run,” Macdougall replied. “Well,” I said, “we’d better try and get round him.” So we crawled right round behind the stag, who kept on moving slowly and then stopping, and got to within about 220 yards of him. “Tak’ your time, sir,” said Macdougall. The stag gave me a good chance, broadside on; and I fired, believing that I was quite steady. “Missed him, sir,” said Macdougall; “I saw something fly up behind him.” “I’m not so sure,” said I, and as I spoke, the stag, who when I fired had bounded forward three or four paces, staggered and then fell and rolled over and over down the hill, shot through the heart, as we subsequently found. Macdougall seized my hand and shook it vigorously, saying, “I hope, sir, he’s a Royal. I believe he is.” As we were getting up to the stag I said, “I see three on one top, but not on the other.” “Ach, yes,” said Macdougall, “he has three on both tops. Yes, sir, he’s a Royal, and we shall have to fine you a bottle of whisky according to the custom of this forest.” “You may be quite sure I shall not mind that,” I replied. On getting up to the stag we found that his head was a fine wild one, with exceptionally long horns. My first bullet had passed through the