He had offered to walk these remaining
eight miles in order to have the proud satisfaction of taking the stag
home with them; now he was just as well content that it was he, and not
the slain deer, that Maggie was to carry down to Strathaivron. So he lit
another cigarette, got into the saddle, and with a light heart set forth
upon the long and tedious jog-jog down towards the region of comparative
civilization.
Yet it was hardly so tedious, after all. He was mentally going over
again and again every point and incident of the day's thrilling
experiences; and now it seemed as if it were a long time since he had
been squirming through the heather, with all his limbs aching, and his
heart ready to burst. He recalled that beautiful picture of the stags
feeding on the lonely plateau; he wondered now that he was able to
steady the rifle-barrel until it ceased to be tremulous; he asked
himself whether he had not in reality pulled the trigger just before the
stag swerved its head aside. And what would have been his feelings now,
supposing he had missed? Riding home in silence and dejection--trying to
account for the incomprehensible blunder--fearing to think of what he
would have to say to the people at the lodge.
Pages:
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286