The bird was flying fast; Lisle had to load, and by the time he had snapped in a cartridge it was a long range. This, however, was somewhat in his favor, as he was better used to the rifle. There was a flash and the bird struck the heath. The girl glanced at him in unveiled appreciation.
“A clean kill!” she exclaimed. “You have won the gloves; and you’ll deserve them before you have heard the last of this incident. I suppose you don’t know that you shouldn’t have fired a shot except from behind the butts.”
She watched his expression with open amusement.
“You don’t like to ask why I tempted you,” she went on. “It was to vex the keeper; you may have turned back the birds the beaters are driving up.”
“Thanks for the information,” Lisle said coolly. “Do you mind my inquiring whether you would have taken the sovereign in case I’d missed? As you suggested, I’m lately from the wilds.”
“Of course!” she mocked. “I could have had it drilled and worn it on a chain!”
The man made no comment as they went on. Presently they came to a deep rift in the moor through which a stream leaped sparkling. The girl scrambled down, waist-deep in yellow fern, but the other side was steep and stony and she was glad of help when he held out his hand. They made the ascent with some difficulty and on reaching the summit she looked around, breathless.
“This is a romantic spot, if you’re interested in the legends of the Border,” she told him.
“I am,” Lisle said; and she sat down among the heather.
“It’s an excuse for a rest,” she confessed. “The old moss-troopers used to ride this way to ravage Cumberland. It was advisable for them to follow hidden paths among the moors, and once an interesting little skirmish took place among those brakes down the hollow.”