The forenoon sun soared hot and high, and the drowsy flies and one huge humming bee, enclosed by the windows of her room, made their useless journeys up and down the panes, on which the climbing ivy pattered; the birds twittered among the leaves of the latter; an occasional dog barked in the stable-yard, and the voice of the peacock--never pleasant at any time--was heard on the terrace without; but soon other sounds--voices indicative of excitement and alarm--caused her to rise, throw open a window in the deep embayment of the ancient wall, and look out. Advancing across the emerald sward of the lawn, but slowly and carefully, came a group--the sportsmen of the morning, with their guns sloped on the shoulder or carried under an arm, and the dogs cowering, as if overawed, about their footsteps. What was the cause of this? What had happened? Four men were bearing a fifth on a stretcher or hurdle of some kind--a man either terribly wounded or dead, he lay so still--so very still! A half-stifled cry escaped Hester, as she rushed downstairs, for some dreadful catastrophe had evidently taken place! CHAPTER XXII. A FATAL SHOT. When the shooting party, after being somewhat delayed by Skene's unexpected departure, was setting forth, Roland and Elliot, with no small indignation, and confounded by his profound assurance, saw Hawkey Sharpe join them, belted, accoutred, gaitered, and gun in hand, looking quite sobered and fresh, having doubtless just had from Mr. Funnell 'a hair of the dog that bit him' overnight. 'That fellow here, actually--after all!' said Roland through his clenched teeth, though Elliot had given him but a vague outline of Sharpe's rudeness, remembering Maude's earnest desire and evident anxiety. While somewhat 'dashed' by the coolness of his reception by all--even to old Ponto the setter, who gave him a wide berth--Mr. Hawkey Sharpe was mean enough--or subtle enough--to hammer a kind of excuse for 'some mistake' he had made last night, attributing it to the wine he had taken--mixing champagne and claret-cup with brandies and soda--of all of which he had certainly imbibed freely, as his still yellow-balled and bloodshot eyes bore witness. Elliot heard him with a fixed stare of calm disdain; while Roland, writhing in his soul, still temporized--despising himself heartily the while--for the sake of appearances, but determined now, before twenty-four hours were past, to get at the bottom of the mystery--to ascertain the real state of his affairs. There was something in Jack Elliot's well-bred and steady stare, as he focussed him with his eye-glass, that expressed vague wonder, _insouciance_, and no small contempt; it enraged Hawkey Sharpe and made his whole heart seem to burn in his breast with hate and suppressed passion, while fixing his own eyeglass defiantly and attempting suavely to say: 'Good-morning, Captain Lindsay--good-morning, gentlemen, _all_.'