She was very pretty and piquant in her kilted dress and shooting jacket and high boots.  It was a formidable army of two.

There were myriads of bees in the openings, and the fall flowers were yielding up the honey to be stored, in the hearts of great trees, and at noon-time they sat down in one of the openings for luncheon.

He had shot only a couple of ruffed grouse, for it was a ramble rather than a real hunt, this first mid-wood excursion of the pair, and she had shot at various things, a grouse or two and squirrels, and missed with regularity, and was piqued over it, but he had noted her increasing courage and confidence and resolution with each successive shot, and knew that he had with him, for the future, a “little sportsman,” as he called her.

They built a fire, just for the fun of it, and a grouse was plucked and broiled with much ado, and never was greater feast.  And, the meal over, he produced a cigar and—­which was not really good form for the woods—­lay on the grass and smoked it, looking at her and talking nonsense.

She sat upon a log and delighted in the fragrance and the light, and the droning sounds and bird-cries, and the new world of it to her.  All at once, her gaze became fixed upon some object a little distance away.  She reached out her hand to him appealingly.

“What is that?”

He rose and looked where she pointed.

Years of decay had made of the trunk of a fallen tree but a long ridge of crumbling, brown chips, and, upon this ridge, where the sun streamed down hotly, lay something coiled in a black mass, and there was a flat, hideous head resting upon it all with beady eyes which seemed, to leer.

Harlson looked at it carelessly.

“Big one, isn’t it?” he said.

“What is it?” she gasped.

“What is it, you small ignoramus!  It’s a blacksnake and a monster.  It is one of the dreads of the small life of the wood, and it was one of the dreads of my youth, and its days are numbered.”

He reached for his gun, then checked himself.

“Shoot it.”

She picked up the little rifle and raised it to her shoulder, as calmly as any Leather-Stocking in the land.

The report came like a whip-crack, and up from the dead log leaped a great writhing mass, which coiled and twisted and thrashed about, and finally lay still.

Harlson walked up and examined what he called the “remains.”  Half the serpent’s ugly head had been torn away by the bullet.

“It was a great shot!  ’And the woman shall bruise the serpent’s head!’” he quoted.  “Egad, you’ve done it with a vengeance, my huntress!  And you are a markswoman among many, and thy price is above rubies!  Hooray!”

She informed him, with much dignity, that she never missed such monsters as were blacksnakes, and that her undoubted skill with the rifle was due to the quality of the tutor she had owned, and, at the same time, would he mind moving to some other place to finish his cigar, for the sight of the dead monster was not a pleasant thing?