I tell you I heard two," he said in a hushed voice. "You didn't fire?"

"I had no gun."

"Was it Brian?"

"Yes. He shot straight at--at Richard; didn't see him a bit. He was
always short-sighted."

Donald gave his brother a look, and then turned to the keeper, whose
face was working with unwonted emotion at the sight before him.

"We must get help," he said, gravely. "He must be carried home, and some
one must go to Dunmuir. Brian, shall I send to the village for you?"

He touched Brian's shoulder as he spoke. The young man rose, and turned
his pale face and lack-lustre eyes towards his friend as though he could
not understand the question. Donald, repeated it, changing the form a
little.

"Shall I send for the men?" he said.

Brian pressed his hand to his forehead.

"The men?" he said, vaguely.

"To carry--him to the house."

Donald was compassionate, but he was uncomprehending of his friend's
apparent want of emotion. He wanted to stir him up to a more definite
show of feeling. And to some extent he got his wish.

A look of horror came into Brian's eyes; a shudder ran through his
frame.

"Oh, my God!" he whispered, hoarsely, "is it I who have done this
thing?"

And then he threw up his hands as though to screen his eyes from the
sight of the dead face, staggered a few steps away from the little
group, and fell fainting to the ground.

It was a sad procession that wound its way through the woodland paths at
last, and stopped at the gate of Netherglen. Brian had recovered
sufficiently to walk like a mourner behind the covered stretcher on
which his brother's form was laid; but he paid little attention to the
whispers that were exchanged from time to time between the Grants and
the men who carried that melancholy burden to the Luttrells' door. On
coming to himself after his swoon he wept like a child for a little
time, but had then collected himself and become sadly quiet and calm.
Still, he was scarcely awake to anything but the mere fact of his great
misfortune, and it was not until the question was actually put to him,
that he asked himself whether he could bear to take the news to his
mother of the death of her eldest son.

Brave as he was, he shrank from the task. "No, no!" he said, looking
wildly into Donald's face. "Not I. I am not the one to tell her, that
I--that I-----"

A great sob burst from him in spite of his usual self-control. Donald
Grant turned aside; he did not know how to bear t