It was tantalizing in the last degree.  The breathless consciousness that the deer were close by made him all the more impatient for the half-dreaded opportunity of having a shot at one of them.  He wished it was well over.  If he were going to miss, he wanted to have his agony of mortification encountered and done with, instead of enduring this maddening delay.  The peat-hag became a prison; and a very uncomfortable prison, too.  His sandwiches were soon disposed of; thereafter—­what?  He dared not smoke; he had no book with him; the keeper and the gillie, having withdrawn themselves, were exchanging confidences in their native tongue.  His clothes were wet and cold and clammy; Percy Lestrange’s flask appeared to afford him no comfort whatever.  And of course the longer he brooded over the chances of hit or miss, the more appalling became the responsibility.  How much depended on that fifteenth part of a second!  He was half inclined to say, “Here, Roderick, I can bear this anxiety no longer.  Let us get as near the deer as we can; sight the rifle for a long distance, you whistle the stags on to their legs—­and I’ll blaze into the thick of them.  Anything to get the shot over and done with!”

Indeed, this intolerable waiting was about as bad a thing as could have happened to his nerves; but it did not last quite as long as the keeper had anticipated; for about two o’clock Roderick ascertained that the stags were up again and feeding.  This was good news—­anything was good news, in fact, that broke in upon this sickening suspense; had Lionel been informed that the deer had taken alarm and disappeared at full gallop, he would have said “Amen!” and set out for home with a light heart.  But, by and by, when it was discovered that the stags had gone over the ridge—­one of them remained on the crest for a long time, staring right across the valley, so that the stalkers dared not move hand or foot—­when this last sentinel had also withdrawn, the slouching and skulking devices of the morning had to be resumed.  Not a word was spoken; but Lionel knew that the fateful moment was approaching.  Then, when they began to ascend the ridge over which the stags had disappeared, their progress culminated in a laborious crawl, Roderick going first, with the rifle in one hand, Lionel dragging himself after, the gillie coming on as best he might.  It was slow work now.  The keeper went forward inch by inch, as if at any moment he expected to find a stag staring down upon him.  And at last he lay quite still; then, with the slightest movement of his disengaged hand, he beckoned Lionel to come up beside him.