"Mr. Grey," I cried, "I would not have you think that I cannot shoot."
Forty yards from me on the edge of the covert a turkey stood, with its
foolish, inquisitive head. The sound of the shots had brought the bird
out to see what was going on. It stood motionless, blinking its eyes,
the very mark I desired.
I pointed to it with my right hand, flung forward my pistol, and fired.
It rolled over as dead as stone, and Faulkner walked to pick it up. He
put back my pistols in the box, and we turned to seek the horses....
Then Grey came up to me. His mouth was hard-set, but the lines were not
of pride. I saw that he too had been desperately afraid, and I rejoiced
that others beside me had been at breaking-point.
"Our quarrel is at an end, sir?" he said, and his voice was hesitating.
"Why, yes," I said. "It was never my seeking, though I gave the
offence."
"I have behaved like a cub, sir," and he spoke loud, so that all could
hear. "You have taught me a lesson in gentility. Will you give me your
hand?"
I could find no words, and dumbly held out my right hand.
"Nay, sir," he said, "the other, the one that held the trigger. I count
it a privilege to hold the hand of a brave man."
I had been tried too hard, and was all but proving my bravery by
weeping like a bairn.
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