“Poor old fellow!” said the major, who was kneeling beside the dog, and he stroked the great ears; “but,” he added softly to himself, “I’ve had enough of blood: thank God it was not a man.”
A series of loud whistles brought back some of the scattered forces, the men meeting with such an ovation from Sir John that they began to think they had better have had it out honourably with the poachers; and then a stout sapling was cut down, and the dog’s paws being tied, he was carried home to the stable-yard on the shoulders of two watchers.
After this, there was much beer drinking in the servant’s-hall, and much discussion in the library, where a piece of sticking-plaister was sufficient to remedy Rolph’s wound, his arm was bathed, and Glynne did not faint.
Rolph soon after retired for the night, the major noting that he was looking very pale and uneasy. Twice over he went and looked at himself in the glass, and once he shuddered and stood staring over his shoulder, as if expecting to see someone there.
“Man can’t help his gun going off in the excitement of an action,” he said slowly. “What a fool I was not to own up that I had shot the big dog.”
“Well, they shouldn’t poach,” he muttered at last; and, lighting a cigar, he sat smoking for an hour before going to bed to sleep soundly, awake fairly fresh the next morning, and go out for what he termed “a breather.”