"How do you mean?" asks the tall woman.
"Someone shot from the bushes; didn't you see? First of all you nearly hit me, it was the closest shave I ever had, and immediately your horse fell——"
"I'll soon find out who has been making a target of me," muttered the stranger.
So saying, she fires recklessly into the bushes, but there is no sound, no cry.
Eleanor watches this wild creature curiously. Surely she will apologise for nearly killing her through inexcusable carelessness.
But she says no word, only watches the smoke rise, and anathematises the fate that has slain a useful beast.
Eleanor forgets her own grievance, and sympathises with the stranger's loss.
"It could not have been done intentionally," she declares.
"I don't believe in chance; it was a dead aim, depend upon it."
Eleanor's eyes expand at this remark.