With the morning the hunter rose and stretched. He stripped to his waist and cleaned up as best he could in the stream in the meadow, before scattering his shelter again and taking up his supplies. He ate a cold breakfast of salted rabbit and then headed up the mountain.

It was slow going, and he still felt as if eyes were watching him. The rising sun illuminated holds in the rocks, which let him rise upwards. As he went, he was ever vigilant, still looking for his prey. He had spotted her hoof prints at the bottom of the mountain and was certain she had climbed it.

The climb took him half the morning, but eventually he was on the top of the mountain, facing a valley. He could see that there was a lake in the valley surrounded with trees. He started to look for signs of the deer's passing, but wasn't successful. With a sinking heart, he decided to head down into the valley, where the ground was surely softer. Maybe there he would pick up some trace of her. In nothing else, he could take a real bath in the lake, and after a fortnight of hunting, he needed one. Soon he was creeping through the trees, headed toward the lake, his gun in his hands.