that part of the grounds where the red deer were kept, they suddenly at
a turn of the road came upon the lord of the demesne standing in the
centre of the passage, as if prepared to dispute it against all comers.
Mr Maule being aware that it might be dangerous to trifle with him, or
to endeavour to drive him away (for it was the rutting season),
cautioned the postilion to go slowly, and give the animal an opportunity
of moving off. This was done, and the stag retired to a small hollow by
the side of the road. On the carriage passing, however, he took offence
at its too near approach, and emerged at a slow and stately pace, till
he arrived nearly parallel with it. Mr Maule then desired the lad to
increase his pace, being apprehensive of a charge in the broadside.

"The deer, however, had other intentions; for as soon as the carriage
moved quicker, he increased his pace also, and came on the road about
twelve yards ahead of it, for the purpose of crossing, as it was
thought, to a lower range of the parks; but to the astonishment and no
little alarm of the occupants of the carriage, he charged the offside
horse, plunging his long brow antler into his chest, and otherwise
cutting him.

"The horse that was wounded made two violent kicks, and is supposed to
have struck the stag, and then the pair instantly ran off the road; and
it was owing solely to the admirable presence of mind and sense of the
postilion, that the carriage was not precipitated over the neighbouring
bank. The horses were not allowed to stop till they reached the gate,
although the blood was pouring from the wounded animal in a stream as
thick as a man's finger. He was then taken out of the carriage, and only
survived two or three hours. The stag was shortly afterwards
killed."[256]

THE FRENCH COUNT AND THE STAG.

Mr Scrope, in his "Deer-Stalking," describes a grand deer-drive to
Glen-Tilt, headed by the Duke of Athole. Many an incident of this and
subsequent drives was watched by "Lightfoot," who was present, and whose
pictures, under his name of Sir Edwin Landseer, have rendered the life
of the red deer familiar to us, in mist, amid snow, swimming in the
rapid of a Highland current, pursued and at rest, fighting and feeding,
alive and dead, in every attitude, and at every age.

In this encounter, the Duke killed three first-rate harts, Lightfoot
two, and other rifles were all more or less successful. A French count,
whose tongue it was difficult to