“I’m a bit hurt,” said Rolph; “arm bruised, and a touch on the head, too.”
“But someone must have been shot. Did you fire?” said Sir John.
“I think I did. Yes,” said Rolph, “I got a crack on the arm, and I had a finger on the trigger.”
“Then someone is down,” cried Sir John. “Where are our men?”
“Gone for help, I think,” said the major drily, as Rolph succeeded in loosening Sir John’s hands.
“The cowardly scoundrels!” roared Sir John. “Here, let’s pursue the poachers.”
“No, no,” said the major. “We’re defeated this time, Jack, and they’ve retired. Thank you, Morton. I think we four made a good fight of it, and—ah, poor fellow!” he cried, bending down. “Nero, Nero, good dog then.”
In the darkness they could just see the great dog make an effort to reach the major’s hand, but the attempt resulted in a painful moan; a shudder, a faint struggle, and death.
“I’ll swear it was not my shot killed him,” cried Rolph excitedly.
“Say no more about it,” said Sir John; “it was an accident. I’d sooner one of the scoundrels had had it in his skin, though. I wouldn’t have taken fifty pounds for that dog.”