“Two shots at most, then a bolt,” he reflected. “Anyway, there won’t be a soul that side to-night, for Wilkins and the others at Westcombe will all be down on the lower side, where they are having a battoo to-morrow. So I’ll chance it.” He broke open a box of cartridges, loaded the gun, and then left Hangman’s Hut, locking the door behind him. Westcombe lay midway between Middlecott and the Moor. Of old there had existed great rivalry between the houses of Vivian and Giffard as to their game, but for many years the first-named estates produced heavier bags, and, after the death of Sir George Giffard, Westcombe went steadily down, for Sir George’s son and heir had little love of sport. Old Lady Giffard, however, still dwelt at Westcombe, and rejoiced to entertain the decreasing numbers of her late husband’s friends. A shooting party was now collected at the old house, and a big battue had been planned for the following day. “’Twould keep any but Mister Henry away from my wedding,” thought Daniel. “Of course not one man in a million would put another chap’s wedding afore a battoo. I wouldn’t. But he will. ’Tis an awful fine thing never to break your word, no doubt. You can trust that man like you can the sun.” The young poacher pursued his way without incident and sank into the underwoods of Westcombe as the moon rose. He waited an hour hidden within ten yards of the keepers’ path, but silence reigned in the forest, and only the faint tinkle of frost under white moonlight reached his ear. Once or twice an uneasy cry or flutter from a bird that felt the gathering cold fell upon the night; and once, far away, Dan’s ears marked gun-fire. The sound interested him exceedingly, for it certainly meant that somebody else was engaged upon his own rascally business. Long he listened, and presently other shots in quick succession clearly echoed across the peace of the hour. They were remote, but they came from Middlecott, as Daniel well knew. “’Tis Thorpe an’ my father for sartain,” he said to himself. “Well, I hope father haven’t met with no hurt to keep him away from my wedding.” Now Dan turned his attention to his own affairs and was soon in the coverts. He crept slowly through the brushwood and lifted his head cautiously at every few steps. Often for five minutes together he remained motionless as the dead fern in which he stood, often he might have been a stock or stone, so still was he. Only the light in his eyes or the faint puff of steam at his lips indicated that he was alive. The pheasants slept snug aloft, and Dan heard a fox bark near him and smiled. “You’m wanting your supper, my red hero, no doubt, an’ can’t reach it. Well, well, you’ll have to go content wi’ a rabbit; the long-tails be for your betters.”