For he had flung her hand away with rather too much force, in his storm of passion; and was crashing through the opposite door, and down the steps, in pursuit of Philip King. Both of them made straight for the wood; but Philip King had a good start, and nothing in his hand; George Heneage had his gun. Selina alluded to it. "I hope it is not loaded! Flying along with that speed, he might strike it against a tree, and be shot before he knows it. Anne, look here! You are fleeter than I. Run you crossways over that side grass to the corner entrance; it will take you to a path in the wood where you will just meet them. Tell Mr. Heneage from me, that I _command_ him to come back, and to let Philip King alone. I command it, in his mother's name." I did not dare to refuse, and yet scarcely dared to go. I ran along, my heart beating. Arrived at the entrance indicated I plunged in, and went on down many turns and windings amidst the trees. They were not very thick, and were intersected by narrow paths. But no one could I see. And now arrived a small calamity. I had lost my way. How to trace an exit from the wood I knew not, and felt really frightened. Down I sat on an old stump, and cried. What if I should have to stay there until morning! Not so. A slight noise made me look up. Who should be standing near, his back against a tree, smoking a cigar and smiling at me, but Philip King. "What is the grief, Miss Anne? Have you met a wolf?" "I can't find my way out, sir." "Oh, I'll soon show you that. We are almost close to the south border. You——" He stopped suddenly, turned his head, and looked attentively in a direction to the left. At that moment there came a report, something seemed to whizz through the air, and strike Philip King. He leaped up, and then fell to the ground with a scream. This was followed so instantly that it seemed to be part and parcel of the scream, by a distant exclamation of dismay or of warning. From whom did it come? Though not perfectly understanding what had occurred, or that Philip King had received a fatal shot, I screamed also, and fell on my knees; not fainting, but with a sick, horrible sensation of fear, such as perhaps no child ever before experienced. And the next thing I saw was Mr. Edwin Barley, coming towards us with his gun, not quite from the same direction as the shot, but very near it. I had been thinking that George Heneage must have done it, but another question arose now to my terrified heart: Could it have been Mr. Edwin Barley? "Philip, what is it?" he asked, as he came up. "Has any one fired at you?" "George Heneage," was the faint rejoinder. "I saw him. He stood there." With a motion of the eyes, rather than with aught else, poor Philip King pointed to the left, and Mr. Edwin Barley turned and looked, laying his gun against a tree. Nothing was to be seen. "Are you sure, Philip?" "I tell it you with my dying lips. I saw him."