"You mustn't say that!" she cried. "Oh, you mustn't say that to me!" "Why not?" he said, looking at her strangely. "What have I said that isn't right?" "Nothing, I suppose," Juliet faltered. "But--but--Oh," she cried, "if you don't care for her, you must tell her so, and she will break it off. Anything would be better than to go on with it!" "I think she knows," he answered gloomily. "She won't break it off, because she wants to be 'my Lady,' It's a business matter, really. And I'd have to stick to it for my mother's sake, anyhow." Juliet could think of nothing to say. "You ought not to marry her," she stammered again. "If I didn't," he began hoarsely--"if she did let me go, I don't suppose you'd ever care for me enough to marry me? Oh, I know I ought not to say it," he broke off; "I'm a cad to speak like this. Forgive me, Juliet." Juliet's world revolved around her at an unusual pace for the space of a second. She shut her eyes to steady herself; a mixture of misery and happiness deprived her of speech or movement. Gradually the misery predominated and she burst into tears. "Forgive me, forgive me," he was saying. He stood before her, looking as wretched as a man can look. "Yes, yes," she sobbed. "Let us forget all about it. You must forget me." "You know I can't," he said. "Juliet, Juliet, don't cry. If you cry I shall be simply obliged to kiss you." And he took a step towards her. They were still standing at the edge of the burn, screened from the track ahead, partly by a little bush of alder which grew beside them, partly by the winding of the path round the slope of the hill. As David spoke a rabbit came scampering up to the other side of the bush, and then, becoming aware of their proximity, turned at right angles and darted down the bank. It was three or four yards away, and going hard, when there was a loud report, and the branches of the alder cracked and rattled. Several little boughs fell to the ground a foot or two away from the spot on which Juliet stood. Surprise dried her tears and restored David to his senses. "Hi!" he shouted, bounding on to the path, and waving his arms frantically. "What are you shooting at? Look out, can't you?" Fifty yards up the track his Cousin Mark was standing, an open gun in his hand; a scared ghillie was running towards them down the path beyond. "Good heavens, David," Mark ejaculated, "do you mean to say you were in the burn? I thought you were on ahead! Why in the world did you lag behind like that? Do you know I might easily have shot you?" "Do I know it? You precious near did shoot me, and Miss Byrne, too, I tell you. If it hadn't been for that alder we should have been bound to get most of the charge between us. It's not like you to be so careless."