“Well done!” Sir Hugh called out, “A capital shot!”

“A ghastly fluke, Sir Hugh!” Lionel called out, in return.  “I simply fired in the air.”

“And a very good way of firing, too!” was the naive rejoinder.

But his next achievement was hardly so creditable.  They were skirting the edge of a birch-wood that clothed the side of a steep precipice overlooking the Aivron, where there were some patches of bracken among the heather, when the setter in front of him—­a young dog—­began to draw rather falteringly on to something.

“Ware rabbit, Hector!” the keeper said, in an undertone.

But meanwhile the older dog, that was backing in front of Captain Waveney, whether it was impatient of this uncertainty on the part of its younger companion, or whether it was jealous, managed, unobserved, to steal forward a foot or two, until suddenly it stopped rigid.

“Good dog, Iris, good dog!” Captain Waveney said (for he had overlooked that little bit of stealthy advance), and he shifted his gun from his right hand to his left, and stooped down and patted the animal’s neck—­though all the time he was looking well ahead.

Then all at once there was a terrific whir of wings; Waveney quickly put his gun to his shoulder—­paused—­took it down again; at the same moment Lionel, finding a bird within his proper field, as he considered—­though it was going away at a prodigious speed—­took steady aim and fired.  That distant object dropped—­there was not a flutter.  Of course the keeper and Sir Hugh were still watching the young dog; but when this doubtful scent came to nothing, Sir Hugh turned to Lionel.

“That was a long shot of yours, Mr. Moore,” said he.  “And very excusable.”

“Excusable?” said Lionel, wondering what he had done this time.

“Of course you knew that was a blackcock?” the other said.

“A blackcock?” he repeated.

“Didn’t you hear Roderick call out?  Didn’t you see Waveney put up his gun and then take it down?”

“Neither the one nor the other; I only saw a bird before me—­and fired.”

“Oh, well, there’s no great harm done; if a man has no worse sin on his conscience than shooting a blackcock on the Twelfth, he should sleep sound o’ nights.  Waveney is fastidious.  I dare say, if the bird had come my way, I should not have resisted the temptation.”

Lionel considered that Sir Hugh was an exceedingly considerate and good-natured person; and in fact when they picked up the dead bird, and when he was regarding its handsome plumage, it cannot fairly be said that he was very sorry for his venial mistake.  Only he considered he was bound in honor to make confession to Miss Cunyngham.