They had left the turn to the belt of woods, and were now passing one or two empty fields where low hedges made a black line of demarcation, and the moonlight seemed even whiter than before. Faith was on the side next the road, and both a little way out, for the walking was smoother and dryer.
How it was done Faith could not tell—the next two seconds seemed full of separate things which she remembered afterwards—but her hand was disengaged from Mr. Linden's arm, and he was standing before her and she behind him, almost before she had fairly seen a little flash of red light from the hedge before them. A sharp report—a powdery taint on the sweet air, came then to give their evidence—to what?
That second past, Mr. Linden turned, but still standing so as to shield her, and laid both hands on her shoulders.
"Are you hurt?" he said, in a voice lowered by feeling, not intent.
One bewildered instant she stood mute—perhaps with no breath for words; the next minute, with a motion too unexpected and sudden to be hindered, lifting both hands she threw his off, bounded to one side to be clear of him, and sprang like a gazelle towards the spot where the red flash had caught her eye. But she was caught and stopped before she reached it, and held still—that same shield between her and the hedge.
"Did it touch you?" Mr. Linden repeated.
"No—Let me! let me!"—she said eagerly endeavouring to free herself.
He was silent a moment—a deep drawn breath the only reply; but he did not loose his hold.
"My dear child," he said, "you could find nothing—for what would you go?"—the tone was very gentle, even moved. "You must walk on before me as quick as you can. Will you promise to do it? I will keep you in sight."
"Before you?—no. What are you going to do? Are you touched?"—Her voice changed as she went on.