“Why should they not resort hither,” said Glenn, unmindful of Joe, “where no meaner beings abide?”
Joe fired, and Glenn started in astonishment, as if he had had no intimation of his companion’s intention.
“Hang it all! Isn’t he going to die, I wonder?” said Joe, after the buck had made one or two plunges in the snow, his sharp hoofs piercing through the crust on the surface, and with much struggling extricated himself and stood trembling, and looked imploringly at his foe.
“What in the world are you about?” exclaimed Glenn, casting a listless glance at the deer, and then staring his companion in the face.
“Whip me if there was any lead in the gun!” said Joe. “I drew the bullets out yesterday, and forgot to put them in again. But no matter—he can’t run through the snow—I’ll kill him with the butt of my musket.”
“Move not, at your peril!” said Glenn, authoritatively, when Joe was about to rush on the defenceless buck.
“I do believe you are out of your head!” said Joe, staring Glenn in the face, and glancing at the tempting prize, alternately.
“At such an hour—in such an elysian place as this—no blood shall be spilled. It were profanity to discolor these pearly walks with clotted gore.”
“The deuce take the pearls, say I!” said Joe.
“Perhaps,” continued Glenn, “a god may have put on the semblance of a stag to tempt us.”