“Forward and silence,” called out Geraldine; the mellow swish of snow-shoes answered her, and she glided forward on her skis, instructing Delancy under her breath.

“The wind is right,” she said.  “They can’t scent us here, though deeper in the mountains the wind cuts up and you never can be sure what it may do.  There’s just a chance of jumping a pig here, but there’s a better chance when we strike the alder country.  Try not to shoot a sow.”

“How am I to tell?”

“Sows have no tusks that show.  Be careful not to mistake the white patches of snow on a sow’s jowl for tusks.  They get them by rooting and it’s not always easy to tell.”

Delancy said very honestly:  “You’ll have to control me; I’m likely to let drive at anything.”

“You’re more likely to forget to shoot until the pig is out of sight,” she whispered, laughing.  “Look!  Three trails!  They were made last night.”

“Boar?”

“Yes,” she nodded, glancing at the deep cloven imprints.  She leaned forward and glanced across the line at Miller, who caught her eye and signalled significantly with one hand.

“Be ready, Delancy,” she whispered.  “There’s a boar somewhere ahead.”

“How can you tell?”

“I can scent him.  It’s strong enough in the wind,” she added, wrinkling her delicate nose with a smile.

Grandcourt sniffed and sniffed, and finally detected a slight acrid odour in the light, clear breeze.  He looked wisely around him; Geraldine was skirting a fallen tree on her skis; he started on and was just rounding a clump of brush when there came a light, crashing noise directly ahead of him; a big, dark, shaggy creature went bounding and bucking across his line of vision—­a most extraordinary animal, all head and shoulders and big, furry ears.

The snapping crack of a rifle echoed by the sharp racket of another shot aroused him to action too late, for Miller, knife drawn, was hastening across the snow to a distant dark, motionless heap; and Geraldine stood jerking back the ejector of her weapon and throwing a fresh cartridge into the breach.

“My goodness!” he faltered, “somebody got him!  Who fired, Geraldine?”

She said:  “I waited as long as I dared, Delancy.  They go like lightning, you know.  I’m terribly sorry you didn’t fire.”

“Good girl!” said Duane in a low voice as she sped by him on her skis, rifle ready for emergencies as old Miller cautiously approached the shaggy brown heap, knife glittering.

But there was no emergency; Miller’s knife sank to the hilt; Geraldine uncocked her rifle and bent curiously over the dead boar.

“Nice tusks.  Miss Seagrave,” commented the old man.  “He’s fat as butter, too.  I cal’late he’ll tip the beam at a hundred and forty paound!”

The hunters clustered around with exclamations of admiration; Rosalie, distractingly pretty in her white wool kilts and cap, knelt down and touched the fierce, long-nosed head and stroked the furry jowl.