Sinclair leaned up against a rock, his arms folded, a smug smile gradually widening across his features.
'You shouldn't mutilate,' he called out carelessly. 'Shoot to kill outright—specially deer. It's bad policy to only wound a buck.' Then he chuckled as he perceived the statuesque position of his companion.
With a necessary hardening of the heart—for the stabbing of a deer in cold blood makes the man of refinement feel strangely a murderer—Winton raised his knife and prepared to cut across the long veins swelling at the side of the palpitating neck. The blade descended, his grasp tightened, the steel flashed down—when suddenly the graceful creature lifted its head with a dying effort, and gazed with great, suffering eyes full into his face. It was then that the young man paused, while the dry chuckle broke out behind.
For in that seemingly unequal contest the animal won. All strength fled from the murdering hand when its owner beheld those dark fixed eyes of his piteous victim. They were large and luminous, while tear drops of pain trickled along and blackened the surrounding fur. The small black nostrils quivered pitifully in death gaspings. A heartbroken torture overspread the face, which reproached him for the cruel deed of his hand.
A minute later the knife fell unused to the ground. A sickening revulsion of feeling followed, sweeping over him with overpowering force, combined with weariness and a hatred of life. His eyes could not alter the direction of their gaze, for they were held and fascinated by that dark, reproachful glance, as a bird is rendered helpless by the snake.
'Got it,' muttered Sinclair. 'Got it bad. But it will be good for the boy.'
That strange malady, the deer fever, had a firm hold upon Winton. His entire body became seized with violent ague. He trembled with cold, though conscious at the same time that his hands and feet were burning. His quick breath stabbed him with hot gasps. Moisture broke out on his forehead as a horrible vision presented itself to the imagination. He himself was the victim, while the conqueror lay before him. His only chance for life lay in immediate flight, but his feet were chained together and fastened to the ground. He must therefore remain and die.
'It's what I looked for,' muttered Sinclair into his beard. Then he came forward across the open space, and picked up the knife.
As he bent over the deer, and as the animal resigned its life with a deep sob, the man in the trance revived and gazed blankly, first at the dead creature stretched beside him, then at the grinning face of his companion.
'What in the devil's name have you been up to, Sinclair?' he said stupidly.