Just then he heard the sound of a shot.  He did not know what direction it came from, but, fantastically enough, it seemed to be a comment on his thought, a brusk, decisive exclamation flung at him from out of the silent evening.  “Sentimentalist!  Take that, and get out of your mush of feeling!” As he recognized it—­he now forced himself to that sticking-point—­to be a mush, the shot’s comment fell in, of course, with his own view of the matter.

He sat still for a moment, thinking of the shot, and probably expecting it to be repeated.  It was not repeated.  A great silence prevailed, the silence of the Hellenic wild held in the hand of evening.  And abruptly, perhaps, from that large and pervasive silence, Dion caught a coldness of fear.  All his perceptions rushed upon him, an acute crowd.  He sprang up, put his hand to his revolver.  Rosamund out alone somewhere in the loneliness of Greece—­evening—­a shot!

He was over the brow of the hill towards the west in a moment.  All respect for Rosamund’s evening whim, all remembrance of his own proper pride, was gone from him.

“Rosamund!” he called; “Rosamund!”

“Here!” replied her strong voice from somewhere a little way below him.

And he saw her standing on the hillside and looking downwards.  He thrust his revolver back into his pocket quickly.  Already his pride was pushing its head up again.  He stood still, looking down on her.

“It’s all right, it is?”

This time she lifted her head and turned her face up to him.

“All right?”

“I heard a shot.”

He saw laughter dawning in her face.

“You don’t mean to say——?”

She laughed frankly.

“Come down here!”

He joined her.

“What was it?”

“Did you, or didn’t you, think I’d been attacked by Greek brigands?”

“Of course not!  But I heard a shot, and it just struck me——­”

At that moment he was almost ashamed of loving her so much.

“Well, there’s the brigand, and I do believe he’s going to shoot again.  The ruffian!  Yes, he’s taking aim!  Oh, Dion, let’s seek cover.”

Still laughing, she shrank against him.  He put one arm round her shoulder bruskly, and his hand closed on her tightly.  A little way below them, relieved with a strange and romantic distinctness against the evening light, in which now there was a strong suggestion of gold, was a small figure, straight, active—­a figure of the open air and the wide spaces—­with a gun to its right shoulder.  A shot rang out.

“He’s got it,” said Rosamund.

And there was a note of admiring praise in her voice.

“That child’s a dead shot,” she added.  “It’s quail he’s after, I believe.  Look!  He’s picking it up.”

The small black figure bent quickly down, after running forward a little way.

“He retrieves as well as he shoots.  Shall we go to him and see whether it’s quail?”