I was out before daybreak next morning. The wind was gentle and steady from the west. I put twenty bullets for the .22 in my pocket, slung the rifle and the binoculars over my shoulder, made sure my knife had a keen edge, and left Terry to light a fire while I clambered eastwards under the cliff, meaning to circumvent the rocks and come out on the top of the hill above our cave where I was sure I’d find deer grazing their way back to the forest. I had not travelled more than a quarter of a mile when I became aware of half a dozen beasts approaching by the shore of Loch Coulter. They advanced slowly but steadily, and I supposed they had been down on the moor all night, eating the moss crop for which they are so ravenous in spring when the new horn is growing, and were returning to the hills and safety for the day. I had dropped immediately I caught sight of them, and when I made certain they had not seen me I looked about me for a way of retreat; if they continued their course they must inevitably wind me and disturb every other beast within miles. I was lying on a gentle convex slope from which I could neither go back nor forward. When I turned my cheek to the west the wind blew gently on it; the deer were bound to scent me; a grouse made a terrific clamour beside me, and I cursed its noise and the unlucky chance which brought the deer.