It was an unsportsmanlike thing to do, but considering
the rivalry and other temptations I fired, and hit the beast
in the haunch. It was late in the day, and the wounded
Nine days later I spied the 'big stag' again. He was nearly
in the middle of a herd of about twenty, mostly hinds, on the
look-out. They were on a large open moss at the bottom of a
corrie, whence they could see a moving object on every side
of them. A stalk where they were was out of the question. I
made up my mind to wait and watch.
Now comes the moral of my story. For hours I watched that
stag. Though three hundred yards or so away from me, I could
through my glass see almost the expression of his face. Not
once did he rise or attempt to feed, but lay restlessly
beating his head upon the ground for hour after hour. I knew
well enough what that meant. I could not hear his groans.
His plaints could not reach my ears, but they reached my
heart. The refrain varied little: 'How long shall I cry and
Thou wilt not hear?' - that was the monotonous burden of the
moans, though sometimes I fancied it changed to: 'Lord how
long shall the wicked, how long shall the wicked triumph?'
The evening came, and then, as is their habit, the deer began
to feed up wind.