“What wouldst thou do, fool?” said the woman fiercely as she seized the weapon by the barrel; “think of thy son who died but yesterday... ah! ah! look! look!”
Tearing the rifle from her grasp he followed the direction of her eyes; a swiftly-moving black snout showed less than thirty yards from the unconscious bather, who was now swimming leisurely to the bank.
“He must not die,” he muttered; “'tis but a boy!” Then turning to the woman he spoke aloud. “Quick! run to the forest; I shall follow.”
Again she sought to stay his hand; he dashed her aside, raised the rifle to his shoulder and took a quick but steady aim; a second later the loud report rang out, and the monster, struck on his bony head by the heavy bullet, sank in alarm; and then, ere Martin turned to run, two other shots disturbed the silence and he pitched forward on his face into the long grass.
“We just saw the beggar in time, sir,” cried Jones. “I happened to look across and caught sight of him just as he fired at Mr. Walters. Me and Morris fired together.”
Grayling had sprung to his feet. “Are you hit, Walters?” he shouted.
“No,” replied the boy as he clambered up the bank; “what the deuce is the matter?”
“A nigger took a pot-shot at you! Get under cover as quick as you can. Never mind your clothes!”
Ten minutes passed. No sound broke the deathly stillness of the place; and then, cautiously creeping through the grass, the officer and Morris crawled round to where the latter had seen the man fall. They came upon him suddenly. He was lying partly on his face, with his eyes looking into theirs. Morris sprang up and covered him with his rifle.