“To take a man when there’s venison in the way,” said McQuaigh, who seemed to impute Blungle’s aim solely to a want of taste, “who ever heard of such a thing?” Blungle could not have been more frightened, had he pointed his rifle against himself, and, for some time afterwards, he apostrophised the adverse character of his fate, in terms not the most suited for delicate ears. The discharge of the rifle startled the deer, which bounded at once in full sight from the thicket. A ball from Perroque wounded him in the flank, McQuaigh’s trigger was drawn in an instant, but his piece missed fire, much to his annoyance, and as he said himself, “for the first time in its life.” I fired too—but to this day I have not the slightest idea what became of the ball—the wounded animal plunged wildly towards the stream, which he endeavoured to cross. But it was rapid at that particular point, and the ice which was but imperfectly formed gave way with him. He struggled hard to keep himself on the surface, until a ball from McQuaigh’s rifle took effect on his head, and he was at once dragged under by the impetuous current. A little further on, the stream plunged down several rocky ledges in foaming rapids, which bade defiance to the frost. We gained this point just in time to see the body of the deer emerge from beneath the ice; it was immediately afterwards carried over a cataract and precipitated amongst masses of ice, which rose from the chasm like a cluster of basaltic columns and inverted stalactites.