e
pure white of other parts of their plumage. With a wild, tumultuous
rush, they circled in head-on over the decoys; and it was so quickly
done, that they had swept on fifty yards before La Salle could realize
that the leader of the flock was heading for Davies, and had no
intention of surging around to his lures again.

"It will never do to let them get the first brent," muttered La Salle.
"She has a long-range cartridge in, and I'll try them."

Turning on his knees, he raised the ponderous gun until it "lined" the
retreating flock, but elevated at least five feet above the birds, now
nearly two hundred yards away. The heavy concussion reverberated across
the ice, and the fatal cartridge tore through the distant flight,
picking out two of the twelve which composed the flock; and some of the
shot, as both Davies and Creamer afterwards averred, rattled smartly in
among their decoys nearly four hundred yards away. The remaining birds,
hurrying away from the dangers behind them, passed within range of
Davies and his companion, and left several of their number dead and
dying on the ice; but the first brent of the season had fallen to La
Salle's gun.

The day was mild and without wind, and as but few birds were flying, La
Salle coiled himself down in the sunny corner of his stand, and drawing
from his pocket the letter of which we have spoken in the last chapter,
gave it a careful and deliberate perusal. As he closed, a smile,
strangely expressing contempt, pity, and admiration, curled his lips, as
in low but audible tones, as is often the habit of the solitary hunter
or fisherman, he communed with his own heart.

"Ah, Pauline! time has brought no change to thy passionate, impulsive,
unreasoning heart; and what thy biting tongue may not say, the pen will
utter, though lapse of years and the waves of the Atlantic roll between
us. Is it not strange that a woman's letter to her betrothed, beginning
with 'My own love,' and ending 'Until death,' can contain eight
double-written pages of unreasonable blame, cruel innuendos, and
despicable revenge on the innocent? Well, we are betrothed, and should
have been married years ago, had not Fate or Providence stood in the
way; and I suppose her life at home is far from pleasant, for her
step-mother is not one to let a good marriage go by, without reminding
poor Paulie of my general worthlessness; but I must say that my better
financial and matrimonial prospects offer little hope of a