D’Alquen stood eyeing him, as he made these effusive protests, with fierce incredulity. “It is a strange idea of sport,” he said with manifest restraint, “to fire at game before one sees it.”
The Count gave a shrug, and, with a sweep of the arm, indicated the thick underwood around them. “It is not easy to see here,” he returned, with a deprecating grimace. “I took a chance shot at what I thought was the animal before he should come to close quarters. It was appallingly foolish of me, I admit, and I am terribly distressed at having brought you into such jeopardy.”
Now it was perfectly obvious that no sane man would have dreamt of shooting through brushwood without a sight of the object fired at; more than that, it would certainly be patent to a less suspicious person than D’Alquen that the shot had been fired not at a boar, but at himself, and with the intention of getting rid of a dangerous presence. For a moment he looked as though he were meditating a return shot which would have rid the world of one of its most singular devotees, but the impulse was checked, and D’Alquen merely observed, keeping alertly on the defensive, “One carries one’s life in one’s hand here in the forest. It is as well not to forget it. I shall profit by your wanting, mein Herr: I might not escape a second time.”
There was a significance enough, in all conscience, in his words, but the Count found it convenient to ignore it.
“I can only repeat,” he protested, “my most heartfelt apologies already offered to you, mein Herr. But for this truly unhappy occurrence, it would have given me the greatest pleasure to have asked you to join me in a day’s sport, and to have made you free of my own preserved ground in the forest. I am Count Zarka of Rozsnyo, and have the honour to be always most humbly at your service.”
Although perfectly aware that the other knew well who he was, no one would have guessed as much from his bland manner.
“As it is,” he proceeded, with a concern so well simulated as nearly to hide the wolfishness beneath it, “I am almost afraid to offer my hospitality after my terrible carelessness. But if you will shoot with me it will at least prove that my assurances are accepted, and that I have your pardon.”
It is hardly likely that D’Alquen was deceived by this elaborate piece of dissimulation; all the same, however, he, perhaps a good deal to Zarka’s surprise, accepted the invitation, although not by any means so cordially as to cover the fierce distrust in his eyes. But then he was neither so complete a man of the world nor so good an actor as the Count, nor again had he such constant practice in giving expression to sentiments which were the very opposite of his real feelings.
Zarka seemed, and probably was, immensely relieved, as D’Alquen fell in with his proposal. “Good!” he exclaimed, with an excess of almost boisterous satisfaction. “You are truly kind and forgiving, mein Herr. Now I shall hope to make some slight atonement for my blunder by showing you good sport.”
Without any corresponding cordiality in his face, D’Alquen, with a sharp glance of suspicion, bowed, shouldered his gun, and they set off together. Zarka, chatting volubly, suggested that they should make for the high ground and try for ibex, as affording more interesting sport, and afterwards that his companion should dine at Rozsnyo. So they strode on shoulder to shoulder towards the mountains.