“Well hit!” Macleod cried; but at the same moment he became conscious that he had better mind his own business, for there was another whirring sound, and then he saw this rapidly enlarging object coming straight at him.  He fired, and shot the bird dead; but so rapid was its flight that he had to duck his head as the slain bird drove past his face and tumbled on to the ground behind him.

“This is rather like firing at bomb-shells,” he called out to Lord Beauregard.

It was certainly a new experience for Macleod to figure as a novice in any matter connected with shooting; but both the major and he speedily showed that they were not unfamiliar with the use of a gun.  Whether the birds came at them like bomb-shells, or sprung like a sky-rocket through the leafless branches, they met with the same polite attention; though occasionally one would double back on the beaters and get clear away, sailing far into the silver-clear sky.  Lord Beauregard scarcely shot at all, unless he was fairly challenged by a bird flying right past him:  he seemed quite content to see his friends having plenty of work; while, in the interest of the beaters, he kept calling out, in a high monotone, “Shoot high! shoot high!” Then there was some motion among the brushwood; here and there a man or boy appeared; and finally the under-keeper with his retriever came across the stream to pick up the dead birds.

That bit was done with:  vorwarts!

“Well, Stuart,” Macleod said, “what do you think of it?  I don’t see anything murderous or unsportsmanlike in this kind of shooting.  Of course shooting with dogs is much prettier; and you don’t get any exercise standing in a wet field; but the man who says that shooting those birds requires no skill at all—­well, I should like see him try.”

“Macleod,” said the major, gravely, as they plodded along, “you may think that I despise this kind of thing; but I don’t:  I give you my solemn word of honor that I don’t.  I will even go the length of saying that if Providence had blessed me with L20,000 a year, I should be quite content to own a bit of country like this.  I played the part of the wild mountaineer last night, you know; that was all very well—­”

Here there was a loud call from Lord Beauregard, who had overtaken them—­“Hare! hare!  Mark hare?” The major jumped round, put up his gun, and banged away—­shooting far ahead in his eagerness.  Macleod looked on, and did not even raise his gun.

“That comes of talking,” the major said, gloomily.  “And you—­why didn’t you shoot?  I never saw you miss a hare in my life.”

“I was not thinking of it,” Macleod said, indifferently.