“So we are,” said Rex, getting on his feet.
A shot rang out, followed by another. They turned, sharply. Ruth, looking half frightened, was lowering the smoking rifle from her shoulder. Across the ravine a large stag was swaying on the edge; then he fell and rolled to the bottom. The hound, loosed, was off like an arrow, scrambling and tumbling down the side. The four hunters followed, somehow. Sepp got down first and sent back a wild Jodel. The stag lay there, dead, and his splendid antlers bore eight prongs.
When Ruth came up she had her hand on her father’s arm. She stood and leaned on him, looking down at the stag. Pity mingled with a wild intoxicating sense of achievement confused her. A rich color flushed her cheek, but the curve of her lips was almost grave.
Sepp solemnly drew forth his flask of Schnapps and, taking off his hat to her, drank “Waidmann’s Heil!”—a toast only drunk by hunters to hunters.
Gethryn shook hands with her twenty times and praised her until she could bear no more.
She took her hand from her father’s arm and drew herself up, determined to preserve her composure. The wind blew the little bright rings of hair across her crimson cheek and wrapped her kilts about her slender figure as she stood, her rifle poised across her shoulder, one hand on the stock and one clasped below the muzzle.
“Are you laughing at me, Rex?”
“You know I am not!”
Never had she been so happy in her whole life.
The game drawn and hung, to be fetched later, they resumed their climb and hastened upward toward the peak.