him, moved, so that, instead of offering him an easy broadside shot, it almost faced him, with its head down. Still, at any moment it might afford a fairer mark; and so, with the utmost caution, and with his lips still shut tight, he slowly raised himself somewhat, and got the rifle into his hands. Yes, the stag had again moved; its shoulder was exposed; his eyes inquired of Roderick if now was the time; and the keeper nodded assent. The awful crisis had arrived; and he seemed to blind himself and deaden himself to all things in this mortal world except the little notch in the rifle, the shining sight, and that fawn-colored object over there. He took a long breath; he steadied and steadied the slightly trembling barrel until it appeared perfectly motionless; and then--he fired! Alas! at the very moment that he pulled the trigger--when it was too late for him to change his purpose--the stag threw up its head to flick at its side with its horns, and thus quite altered its position; he knew he ought not to fire--but it was too late--too late--and in the very act of pulling the trigger he felt that he had missed. Roderick sprang to his feet; for the deer, notwithstanding that they could not have discerned where the danger lay, with one consent bounded forward and made for a rocky defile on the farther side of the plateau. "Come on, sir! Come on, sir!" the keeper called to Lionel. "You've hit him. Come along, sir!" "I haven't hit him--I missed--missed clean!" was the hopeless answer. "I tell ye ye've hit him!" the keeper exclaimed. "Run, sir, run!--if he's only wounded he may need the other barrel. God bless me, did ye not hear the thud when the ball struck?" Thus admonished Lionel unwittingly, but nevertheless as quickly as he could, followed the keeper; and he could show a nimble pair of heels when he chose, even when he was hampered with this heavy rifle. Not that he had any heart in the chase. The stag had swerved aside just as he fired; he knew he must have missed. At the same time any one who goes out with a professional stalker must be content to become as clay in the hands of the potter; so Lionel did as he was bid; and though he could not overtake Roderick, he was not far behind him when they both reached the pass down which the deer had fled. And there the splendid animals were still in view--bounding up a stony hillside some distance off, in straggling twos and threes, and going at a prodigious speed. But where was the light-colored stag? Certainly not among those brown beasts whose scrambling up that steep face was sending a shower of stones and debris down into the silent glen below. "I'm thinking he's no far aweh," Roderick said, eagerly scanning all the ground in front of them. "We'll chist go forrit, sir; and you'll be ready to shoot, for, if he's only wounded, he may be up and off again when he sees us." "But do you really think I hit him?" Lionel said, anxiously enough.