Siward noiselessly sank to his knees and crouched, keen eyes minutely busy among the shadowy browns and greys of wet earth and withered leaf. And after a while, cautiously, he signalled the girl to kneel beside him, and stretched out one arm, forefinger extended.
"Sight straight along my arm," he said, "as though it were a rifle barrel."
Her soft cheek rested against his shoulder; a stray strand of shining hair brushing his face.
"Under that bunch of fern," he whispered; "just the colour of the dead leaves. Do you see? … Don't you see that big woodcock squatted flat, bill pointed straight out and resting on the leaves?"
After a long while she saw, suddenly, and an exquisite little shock tightened her fingers on Siward's extended arm.
"Oh, the feathered miracle!" she whispered; "the wonder of its cleverness to hide like that! You look and look and stare, seeing it all the while and not knowing that you see it. Then in a flash it is there, motionless, a brown-shaped shadow among shadows. … The dear little thing! … Mr. Siward, do you think--are you going to--"
"No, I won't shoot it."
"Thank you. … Might I sit here a moment to watch it?"
She seated herself soundlessly among the dead leaves; he sank into place beside her, laying his gun aside.
"Rather rough on the dog," he said with a grimace.
"I know. It is very good of you, Mr. Siward to do this for my pleasure. Oh--h! Do you see! Oh, the little beauty!"
The woodcock had risen, plumage puffed out, strutting with wings bowed and tail spread, facing the dog. The sudden pigmy defiance thrilled her. "Brave! Brave!" she exclaimed, enraptured; but at the sound of her voice the bird crouched like a flash, large dark liquid eyes shining, long bill pointed straight toward them.
"He'll fly the way his bill points," said Siward. "Watch!"
He rose; she sprang lightly to her feet; there came a whirring flutter, a twittering shower of sweet notes, soft wings beating almost in their very faces, a distant shadow against the sky, and the woodcock was gone.
Quieting the astounded dog, gun cradled in the hollow of his left arm, he turned to the girl beside him: "That sort of thing wins no cups," he said.
"It wins something else, Mr. Siward,--my very warm regard for you."
"There is no choice between that and the Shotover Cup," he admitted, considering her.
"I--do you mean it?"
"Of course I do, vigorously!"
"Then you are much nicer than I thought you. … And after all, if the price of a cup is the life of that brave little bird, I had rather shoot clay pigeons. Now you will scorn me I suppose. Begin!"