It was in vain to point out to
the country fellow the difference between the print of my stag's hoof
and his. He still maintained, like an ignorant sportsman, that this was
the pack's stag; and by this disagreement he gave the dogs time to get a
great way off. I was in a rage, and, heartily cursing the fellow, I
spurred my horse up hill and down dale, and brushed through boughs as
thick as my arm. I brought back my dogs to my first scent, who set off,
to my great joy, in search of our stag, as though he were in full view.
They started him again; but, did ever such an accident happen? To tell
you the truth, Marquis, it floored me. Our stag, newly started, passed
our bumpkin, who, thinking to show what an admirable sportsman he was,
shot him just in the forehead with a horse-pistol that he had brought
with him, and cried out to me from a distance, "Ah! I've brought the
beast down!" Good Heavens! did any one ever hear of pistols in
stag-hunting? As for me, when I came to the spot, I found the whole
affair so odd, that I put spurs to my horse in a rage, and returned home
at a gallop, without saying a single word to that ignorant fool.
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