“Bring a lamp,” shouted Grimbal, and a moment later his groom obeyed; but the fallen man was sitting up by the time John reached him, and the gun that had exploded was at his feet.

“You ’m tu late by half a second,” he gasped.  “I fired myself when I seed the muzzle clear.  Poachin’ he was, but the man ’s marked all right.  Send p’liceman for Sam Bonus to-morrer, an’ I lay you’ll find a picter.”

“Blanchard!”

“Ess fay, an’ no harm done ’cept a stiff leg.  Best to knock thicky poor twoad on the head.  I heard the scream of un and comed along an’ waited an’ catched my gen’leman in the act.”

The groom held a light to the mangled hare.

“Scat it on the head,” said Will, “then give me a hand.”

He was helped to his feet; the servant went on before with the lamp, and Blanchard, finding himself able to walk without difficulty, proceeded, slowly supporting himself by the poacher’s gun.

Grimbal waited for him to speak and presently he did so.

“Things falls out so different in this maze of a world from what man may count on.”

“How came it that you were here?”

“Blamed if I can tell ’e till I gather my wits together.  ’Pears half a century or so since I comed; yet ban’t above two hour agone.”

“You didn’t come to see Sam Bonus, I suppose?”

“No fay!  Never a man farther from my thought than him when I seed un poke up his carrot head under the moon.  I was ‘pon my awn affairs an’ comed to see you.  I wanted straight speech an’ straight hitting; an’ I got ’em, for that matter.  An’ fightin’ ’s gude for the blood, I reckon—­anyway for my fashion blood.”

“You came to fight me, then?”

“I did—­if I could make ’e fight.”

“With that gun?”

“With nought but a savage heart an’ my two fistes.  The gun belongs to Sam Bonus.  Leastways it did, but ’t is mine now—­or yours, as the party most wronged.”

“Come this way and drink a drop of brandy before you go home.  Glad you had some fighting as you wanted it so bad.  I know what it feels like to be that way, too.  But there wouldn’t have been blows between us.  My mind was made up.  I wrote to Plymouth this afternoon.  I wrote, and an hour later decided not to post the letter.  I’ve changed my intentions altogether, because the point begins to appear in a new light.  I’m sorry for a good few things that have happened of late years.”

Will breathed hard a moment; then he spoke slowly and not without more emotion than his words indicated.

“That’s straight speech—­if you mean it.  I never knawed how ’t was that a sportsman, same as you be, could keep rakin’ awver a job an’ drive a plain chap o’ the soil like me into hell for what I done ten year agone.”

“Let the past go.  Forget it; banish it for all time as far as you have the power.  Blame must be buried both sides.  Here’s the letter upon my desk.  I’ll burn it, and I’ll try to burn the memory often years with it.  Your road’s clear for me.”