At that moment he was almost ashamed of loving her so much.
“Well, there’s the brigand, and I do believe he’s going to shoot again. The ruffian! Yes, he’s taking aim! Oh, Dion, let’s seek cover.”
Still laughing, she shrank against him. He put one arm round her shoulder bruskly, and his hand closed on her tightly. A little way below them, relieved with a strange and romantic distinctness against the evening light, in which now there was a strong suggestion of gold, was a small figure, straight, active—a figure of the open air and the wide spaces—with a gun to its right shoulder. A shot rang out.
“He’s got it,” said Rosamund.
And there was a note of admiring praise in her voice.
“That child’s a dead shot,” she added. “It’s quail he’s after, I believe. Look! He’s picking it up.”
The small black figure bent quickly down, after running forward a little way.
“He retrieves as well as he shoots. Shall we go to him and see whether it’s quail?”
“Another child,” said Dion.
He still had his arm round her shoulder.