they had
seen her. (She did not know that they had heard the baying of hounds on
the mountains, and had been lying in wait for her an hour.) What should
she do? The hounds were drawing near. No escape that way, even if she
could still run. With only a moment's hesitation she plunged into the
lake, and struck obliquely across. Her tired legs could not propel the
tired body rapidly. She saw the boat headed for her. She turned toward
the centre of the lake. The boat turned. She could hear the rattle of
the oarlocks. It was gaining on her. Then there was a silence. Then
there was a splash of the water just ahead of her, followed by a roar
round the lake, the words "Confound it all!" and a rattle of the oars
again. The doe saw the boat nearing her. She turned irresolutely to
the shore whence she came: the dogs were lapping the water, and howling
there. She turned again to the center of the lake.

The brave, pretty creature was quite exhausted now. In a moment more,
with a rush of water, the boat was on her, and the man at the oars had
leaned over and caught her by the tail.

"Knock her on the head with that paddle!" he shouted to the gentleman in
the stern.

The gentleman was a gentleman, with a kind, smooth-shaven face, and
might have been a minister of some sort of everlasting gospel. He took
the paddle in his hand. Just then the doe turned her head, and looked at
him with her great, appealing eyes.

"I can't do it! my soul, I can't do it!" and he dropped the paddle. "Oh,
let her go!"

"Let H. go!" was the only response of the guide as he slung the deer
round, whipped out his hunting-knife, and made a pass that severed her
jugular.

And the gentleman ate that night of the venison.

The buck returned about the middle of the afternoon. The fawn was
bleating piteously, hungry and lonesome. The buck was surprised. He
looked about in the forest. He took a circuit, and came back. His doe
was nowhere to be seen. He looked down at the fawn in a helpless sort of
way. The fawn appealed for his supper. The buck had nothing whatever to
give his child,--nothing but his sympathy. If he said anything, this is
what he said: "I'm the head of this family; but, really, this is a novel
case. I've nothing whatever for you. I don't know what to do. I've the
feelings of a father; but you can't live on them. Let us travel."

The buck walked away: the little one toddled after him. They disappeared
in the forest.

V. A CHARACTER