“Accident! Don't come near me! I mean it. God, my heart is too full of vengeance. Accident? Is this blood on my arm accidental? Bah! It was a deliberate attempt to murder me!”
“You? You too?” she gasped, reeling.
“Yes, they winged me too.”
“Let me see—let me help you!” she cried, coming up to his side, white-faced and terrified. “I won't stay away! You are hurt. Please! Please! I am not your enemy.”
For a long minute he held back, savagely resentful, glowering upon her, then his face softened and his hand went out to clasp hers. “I knew you had nothing to do with it. Forgive me—forgive my rudeness. Don't be alarmed about me. Two or three scattered shot struck me in the arm. The fellow's aim was bad when it came to me. But he—he got the dog! Poor old Bonaparte! It's as if he were a—a brother; Miss Drake. I loved him and he loved me.
“You must let me see your arm. I will not take no for an answer. It must need attention—”
“Believe me, it is nothing. I have tied my handkerchief about it—two little shot, that's all. The first charge riddled the dog. But I forget. I am still on your sister's land. At any minute I may be shot from behind some tree. I—I could n't help crying, Miss Drake. It was cruel—fiendish! Now, if you 'll permit me, I'll take my dead off of your land.”
“Stop! I must know about it. Tell me; how did it happen?”
“I can't talk about it to you.”
“Why not? Do you think I condone this outrage? Do you think I can support such means of warfare? You do not know me, Mr. Shaw; you do not know an Englishwoman's love of fairness.”