‘Had you a difficult time?’ she inquired. I told her about my adventures round the Durc where the eagles nest, and I saw a wren hopping from boulder to boulder under the shadow of its great neighbours’ wings. I halted my recital to ask, half-jesting, ‘What grows on our wild stock, Terry, wild roses or a crown of thorns?’

‘Many a crown of thorns on men’s brows this day,’ she murmured. ‘I wonder what’s happening in the world?’

Dangers as well as empty days accompany my stalking. I had so many living enemies to look for, wary deer and chance strangers from the world of men, that I grew careless about the natural dangers of the country. In the beginning of May I went off before dawn as usual to go into Ardverikie Forest. There had been frost, and white rime lightened the gloom and let me pick my way amongst the hags into which I generally floundered on these morning excursions. It was essential to get meat; our last piece of boiled venison was in my pocket. We had let ourselves run short while we delved our peats and set them up to dry. Since we depended on meat a great deal, and saved our stores as far as possible, we required to kill something very frequently. We had enjoyed voracious appetites since we arrived at the cave. So far I had brought home mostly calves and nobbers, but the stags were putting on flesh after their winter hunger, and this day I set my mind on a grown beast.

The wind was erratic and an unlucky breath from the south spoiled my first stalk. It had been a long difficult business. I was compelled to work uphill towards the herd I picked out on the ridge of Meall nan Eacan. The stags were lying as usual with their heads downhill so that most of my progress up the concave ascent was on my belly. The day was well advanced before I got near my quarry. When they winded me it was too late to begin a fresh stalk. I crouched in heather to sleep out the middle of the day.