Chaffer leaped and bounded, followed by his wife and little one, and
was one of the very first to leave the feeding-ground behind; but he
was also the first to meet the hunters face to face--not at such close
quarters as at that memorable time when he had sprang on the same
ledge with the hunter, but just close enough for those hunters to take
a good, steady aim at him.

There was a loud report--another--and another, and Chaffer, stunned
and bewildered, found himself lying at full length on the ground,
while a horrible pain in his body made him feel sick and faint. In
vain he lifted his head, and tried to raise himself; his head sank
slowly down again on the soft grass, and his body would not move. He
kept his eyes fixed on the hunters, who crowded round eagerly, but a
misty veil floated in front of them, and everything looked blurred and
dim. He made one more brave effort, and, with a spasmodic jerk, half
lifted his body; but the exertion made the stream of blood, which was
oozing out of his side, spurt out in quick, sharp rushes, and with a
pathetic sigh and a convulsive movement of the beautiful form, which
had been so full of life and activity only a few short minutes before,
Chaffer let his handsome head fall back for the last time, and died.

The hunters, seeing he was dead, directed their attention to the
mother chamois and her little one. The little chamois was on the
ground, quite dead, and the mother was standing over her beloved one,
her feet on either side of the poor little carcass, dyed a deep red
with the blood of her offspring. During Chaffer's life, his wife had
left it to him to defend her, but, deprived of his help, and bereft of
her little one, she stood at bay--no longer the gentle, timid chamois,
but an indignant, furious animal, ready to defend her kid with her