He tip-toed rapidly across the level hill-top, reached the belt of low
bushes, dropped, and lay to recover breath before resuming the painful
and laborious crawling part of his journey. Was it possible to tap
one's tongue against one's teeth and hear the noise of it as though it
were made of wood? It seemed so. Was this giddiness and dimness of
vision sunstroke? What would he give to have that fly (that had
followed him for hundreds of thousands of miles that morning) between
his fingers?

Last lap! There was the rock, and below it must be the quarry--if it
had not fled. He must keep that rock between himself and his prey and
he must get to it without a sound. It would be easy enough without the
rifle. Could he stick it through his belt and along his back, or trail
it behind him? What nonsense! He must be getting a touch of sun. Would
these stones leave marks of burns on his clothes? Surely he could
smell himself singeing. Enough to explode the rifle ... The big rock
at last! A rest and then a peep, with infinite precaution. Dam held
his breath and edged his face to the corner of the great boulder.
Moving imperceptibly, he peeped ... _No ibex!_ ... He was about to
spring up with a hearty malediction on his luck when he perceived a
peculiar projection on a large stone some distance down the hill. It
moved--and Dam dropped back. It must be the top of the curve of one
of the horns of the ibex and the animal must be lying down.... What to
do? It might lie for hours and he himself might go to sleep. It might
get up and depart at any moment without coming into the line of
fire--without being seen indeed. Better continue the stalk and hope to
get a standing shot, or, failing that, a running one.

It looked a nasty descent, since silence was essential--steep,