When we were in the leafy tunnel I thought we should have to make some kind of loophole, for the foliage was amazingly thick, and shut us in with its green, almost opaque wall.
The Grand Duchess didn't seem to mind. She had not spoken a word as we walked. Her face wore an expression of firm resolution. I hadn't broken the silence either. What could I have said? I'm sure our thoughts were the same at that tragic moment. What was the good of exchanging them?
Suddenly the set expression of her features relaxed a little. She began to talk in low tones. I was astounded by her extraordinary conversation, and the not less extraordinary notion of going there at such a moment to shoot the birds, whose habits she was describing.
Her loaded gun lay across her knees, and she had a curious smile, which made me think that the events of the night must have turned her brain. This is what she said:
"Missel-thrushes. You know them well. They're like ordinary thrushes, only larger. They're on you very much quicker. Very difficult to shoot, though they don't look it. Treacherous creatures. You know they're near, as we do now. But you can't see them. You guess where they are and when to fire. I'm used to them myself. So when I say 'Fire,' and show you the direction, you must fire. Don't worry about a target. You'll go and look and there'll be a thrush on the ground."
She lowered her voice until it became a mere whisper, then, stretching out her arm, she pointed to something, an imperceptible rustling in the thick foliage.
"Fire!" she ordered, "fire, now, fire!"
"But I can't see anything," I said, disconcerted.
"Fool," she murmured. "I will then."
She raised her gun to her shoulder and fired.