Savin, walking along the river bank in the thick underbrush, was a prey to bitter reflections. The cold, cheerless day did not tend to lighten his mood. He felt that his whole life was a failure.
“Happiness is but a chimera,” he said, “a myth to dream about, but not to realize.”
Suddenly a gunshot echoed through the ravine from rock to rock. A ball whizzed past his ear. He raised his rifle and garrisoned himself behind a rock. But at that moment a cunning little doe, wounded and bleeding, fell at his feet with a moan. There was a crackling of leaves. A well-directioned jump landed a man near his victim, which after a spasm or two was dead.
“So it is that rascal,” muttered Savin as he stood gazing at Firmin, who stooped to pick up his game.
“You seem to own everything about this region,” Savin said ironically.
Firmin, surprised at the gamekeeper’s presence, made a backward leap.
“It’s no use. You may as well surrender,” added Savin sternly.
Firmin was about to make a break for the woods, when Savin raised his rifle.
“If you take two more steps you are a dead man,” he coolly warned.
Firmin stopped.