"Vale!" said Siward aloud, "I salute you!"
He came strolling back across the crisp leaves, the dappled sunshine playing over his face like the flicker of a smile.
"Miles," he said, "my nerve is gone. Such things happen. I'm all in. Come over here, my friend, and look at the sun with me."
The discomfited keeper obeyed.
"Where ought that refulgent luminary to scintilate when I face Osprey Ledge?"
"Sir?"
"The sun. How do I hold it?"
"On the p'int of your right shoulder, sir.--You ain't quittin', Mr. Siward, sir!" anxiously; "that Shotover Cup is easy yours, sir!" eagerly; "Wot's a miss on a old drummer, Mr. Siward? Wot's twice over-shootin' cock, sir, when a blind dropper can see you are the cleanest, fastest, hard-shootin' shot in the null county!"
But Siward shook his head with an absent glance at the dog, and motioned the astonished keeper forward.
"Line the easiest trail for us," he said; "I think we are already a trifle tired. Twigs will do in short cover; use a hatchet in the big timber. … And go slow till we join you."
And when the unwilling and perplexed keeper had started, Siward, unlocking his gun, drew out the smooth yellow cartridges and pocketed them.
Sylvia looked up as the sharp metallic click of the locked breech rang out in the silence.
"Why do you do this, Mr. Siward?"
"I don't know; really I am honest; I don't know."
"It could not be because I--"
"No, of course not," he said, too seriously to reassure her.
"Mr. Siward," in quick displeasure.
"Yes?"
"What you do for your amusements cannot concern me."
"Right as usual," he said so gaily that a reluctant smile trembled on her lips.
"Then why have you done this? It is unreasonable--if you don't feel as I do about killing things that are having a good time in the world."
He stood silent, absently looking at the fowling-piece cradled in his left arm. "Shall we sit here a moment and talk it over?" he suggested listlessly.
Her blue gaze swept him; his vague smile was indifferently bland.
"If you are determined not to shoot, we might as well start for Osprey Ledge," she suggested; "otherwise, what reason is there for our being here together, Mr. Siward?"
Awaiting his comment--perhaps expecting a counter-proposition--she leaned against the tree beside which he stood. And after a while, as his absent-minded preoccupation continued: "Do you think the leaves are dry enough to sit on?"
He slipped off his shooting-coat and placed it at the base of the tree. She waited for a second, uncertain how to meet an attitude which seemed to take for granted matters which might, if discussed, give her at least the privilege of yielding. However, to discuss a triviality meant forcing emphasis where none was necessary. She seated herself; and, as he continued to remain standing, she stripped off her shooting-gloves and glanced up at him inquiringly: "Well, Mr. Siward, I am literally at your feet."