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CHAPTER XII.—THE VICTOR.
One evening when the frost lay glittering in the moonlight, the fawns were suddenly awakened, in their soft beds of drifted leaves, by a loud belling down on the lake shore; and wide-eyed, they tip-toed down to see what it meant.
There on the muddy beach—stamped with long lines of little cloven hoof prints—stood a handsome buck, with polished antlers, dancing about as if too full of energy to stand still.
Now the fawns had never seen their father, for he had been killed by a hunter. And the other bucks of the herd had been rambling about all summer in the higher hills.
They now saw Fleet Foot mince daintily down to inspect the new-comer, who was belling his greeting at the top of his lungs.
But the meeting was brought to a sudden end. For out of the woods pranced another buck, belling a saucy challenge to a fight. Fleet Foot withdrew to a safe distance, as did the fawns, and watched admiringly as the two bucks came together; and the excitement, no less than the keen, frosty air, set the blood to racing hot through their young veins.
Stamping their steel-shod hoofs defiantly and tossing their antlered heads in the pride of their strength, the two bucks bellowed their battle challenge.
“Well, where did you come from?” shrilled Fleet Foot’s champion.