It was very soon apparent that he was thinking of something other than the shooting of pheasants or hares; for as they went from one wood to another during this beautiful brief November day he generally carried his gun over his shoulder—­even when the whirring, bright-plumaged birds were starting from time to time from the hedgerows—­and devoted most of his attention to warning his friend when and where to shoot.  However, an incident occurred which entirely changed the aspect of affairs.  At one beat he was left quite alone, posted in an open space of low brushwood close by the corner of a wood.  He rested the butt of his gun on his foot; he was thinking, not of any pheasant or hare, but of the beautiful picture Gertrude White would make if she were coming down one of these open glades, between the green stems of the trees, with the sunlight around her and the fair sky overhead.  Idly he watched the slowly drifting clouds; they were going away northward—­by and by they would sail over London.  The rifts of blue widened in the clear silver; surely the sunlight would now be shining over Regent’s Park.  Occasionally a pheasant came clattering along; he only regarded the shining colors of its head and neck brilliant in the sunlight.  A rabbit trotted by him; he let it go.  But while he was standing thus, and vaguely listening to the rattle of guns on the other side, he was suddenly startled by a quick cry of pain:  and he thought he heard some one call, “Macleod!  Macleod!” Instantly he put his gun against a bush, and ran.  He found a hedge at the end of the wood; he drove through it, and got into the open field.  There was the unlucky major, with blood running down his face, a handkerchief in his hand, and two men beside him, one of them offering him some brandy from a flask.  However, after the first flight was over, it was seen that Major Stuart was but slightly hurt.  The youngest member of the party had fired at a bird coming out of the wood; had missed it; had tried to wheel round to send the second barrel after it; but his feet, having sunk into the wet clay, had caught there, and, in his stumbling fall, somehow or other the second barrel went off, one pellet just catching the major under the eye.  The surface wound caused a good shedding of blood, but that was all; and when the major had got his face washed he shouldered his gun again, and with indomitable pluck said he would see the thing out.  It was nothing but a scratch, he declared.  It might have been dangerous; but what was the good of considering what might have been?  To the young man who had been the cause of the accident, and who was quite unable to express his profound sorrow and shame, he was generously considerate, saying that he had fined him in the sum of one penny when he took a postage-stamp to cover the wound.

“Lord Beauregard,” said he, cheerfully, “I want you to show me a thorough-going hot corner.  You know I am an ignoramus of this kind of thing.”