slippery, and strewn with round stones. Anyhow, he could go down on
his feet, which was something to be thankful for, as it was agony to
put a knee or elbow to the ground. He crept on.

Surely his luck was changing, for here he was, within fifty yards of a
stone behind which lay an unsuspecting ibex with a world's-record
head. Hullo! a nasty little precipice! With a nastily sloping shelf at
the bottom too, eight feet away--and then another little precipice and
another sloping shelf at its base.

Better lay the rifle on the edge, slip over, hang by the hands, grab
it with one, and then drop the intervening few inches. Rubber soles
would play their part here! Damn this giddiness--touch of sun, no
doubt. Damocles de Warrenne knelt on the edge of the eight-foot drop,
turned round, swayed, fell, struck the sloping ledge, rolled off it,
fell, struck the next sloping ledge, fell thirty feet--arousing an
astounded ibex _en route_--and landed in a queer heap on a third
shelf, with a few broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, broken ankles,
and a fractured thigh.

A vulture, who had been interested in his proceedings for some time,
dropped a few thousand feet and had a look. What he saw decided him to
come to earth. He perched on a rock and waited patiently. He knew the
symptoms and he knew the folly of taking risks. A friend or two joined
him--each, as he left his place in the sky, being observed and
followed by a brother who was himself in turn observed and followed by
another who brought others....

One of the hideous band had drawn quite near and was meditating
rewarding his own boldness with a succulent eye, when Dam groaned and