Suddenly his pistol flashed redly, rapidly; a heavy, soft bulk went tumbling down the rocks; another reeled there, silhouetted against Isla Water, then lurched forward, striking the earth with his face. And now from every angle slanting lines of blood-red fire streaked the night; Isla Craig rang and echoed with pelting lead.
"Next!" called out McKay with his ugly careless laugh. "Two down. No use to set 'em up again! Let dead wood lie. It's the law!"
"Can they hear the shooting at the house?" whispered Miss Erith.
"Too far. A shot on the moors carries only a little way."
"Could they see the pistol flashes, Kay?"
"They'd take them for fireflies or witch lights dancing on the bogs."
After a long and immobile silence he dropped to his knees, remained so listening, then crept across the Pulpit's ferny floor. Of a sudden he sprang up and fired full into a man's face; and struck the distorted visage with doubled fist, hurling it below, crashing down through the bracken.
After a stunned interval Miss Erith saw him wiping that hand on the herbage.
"Kay?"
"Yes, Yellow-hair."