“Then do it,” and they went away into the darkness, down the hurry of the stream.
Jack had dimly understood that something was wrong as he came through the edge of the wood, but, as the birch flared up in its fall through the air, he caught sight of a man’s body, and of the backward step of one about to strike with an ax. Then he called to her. As she fled he ran out, and, hearing the noise of her retreat more and more distant, he dropped beside the man.
“It’s Mr. Carington! Is he dead? She shot him! I heard it—oh, this is awful! What shall I do?”
“Mr. Carington!” he called. “Mr. Carington!” As he shook his shoulder, he guessed it was blood he felt on his hand.
He stood up at last, and listened. There was no sound but the deep murmur of the distant river. More at ease, he struck a match, for the birch flame was out, and, bending over, looked at the body.
“By George! he’s not dead; he’s breathing.” And still his anxiety was intense. He took both rifles, dropped a shell in each, ran to the edge of the clearing, and laid them down. Running back, and catching Carington under the arms, he tried to drag him to a shelter. It was in vain. The tall, sturdy man was beyond his powers. But, as he tugged at him, Carington groaned aloud. At the next pull, he spoke:
“What’s wrong? Who are you?”
“I am Jack, sir. You have been shot.”
“Did I do it?—my rifle?” he murmured, feebly.
“No—a woman.”