He remembered the boar and again set out along the branches. “I’ll be more careful,” he called, over his shoulder. Soon he was within six feet of the rifle and directly above it.
“Now what will you do?” she said. “I don’t see that we’re any better off.”
“Patience,” he replied. He broke off a branch and lowered it towards the ground; it reached. He slowly pushed the rifle towards the base of the tree. The boar backed away and eyed the moving branch suspiciously. Grafton had got the rifle against the trunk before the boar rushed. He flung the branch far out from the tree, and the boar leaped into it and trampled and tore it, paying no attention to the rifle.
“Will you please unwind your sash,” said Grafton, “and tease him with it?—keep the end just out of reach of his nose. While you do that I’ll jump down the other side of the tree and shoot him.”
She unwound the long brown sash and let down one of its tasselled ends. The boar rushed it several times, then came to a halt under it, prancing round and round, jumping into the air, frothing and snapping its tusks. Grafton watched until he could see that it was dizzy from rage and rapid whirling.
“Shout!” he called to her. “Shout at him and shake the scarf.”
She obeyed. He dropped to the ground, snatched the rifle, took quick aim, and fired. The boar was leaping into the air. When it fell, it fell to its side, dead—there was not even a quiver.
“Don’t come till I make sure,” he called, running towards the carcass. Down upon it fluttered the brown sash, and then came a heavier body—Erica herself.
Grafton put his arms about her and stood up, holding her as if she were a child. Her long lashes lifted and she looked into his eyes with a faint, apologetic smile. “Put me down, please,” she murmured.
“Not just yet,” he said. “Don’t make an effort, and you’ll come round more quickly.”