“You can see what we’re doing—hand over my snare—_and_ the rabbit,” said George angrily. “What rabbit?” said Annable, turning sarcastically to me. “You know well enough—an’ you can hand it over—or——” George replied. “Or what? Spit it out! The sound won’t kill me”—the man grinned with contempt. “Hand over here!” said George, stepping up to the man in a rage. “Now don’t!” said the keeper, standing stock still, and looking unmovedly at the proximity of George: “You’d better get off home—both you an’ ’im. You’ll get neither snare nor rabbit—see!” “We _will_ see!” said George, and he made a sudden move to get hold of the man’s coat. Instantly he went staggering back with a heavy blow under the left ear. “Damn brute!” I ejaculated, bruising my knuckles against the fellow’s jaw. Then I too found myself sitting dazedly on the grass, watching the great skirts of his velveteens flinging round him as if he had been a demon, as he strode away. I got up, pressing my chest where I had been struck. George was lying in the hedge-bottom. I turned him over, and rubbed his temples, and shook the drenched grass on his face. He opened his eyes and looked at me, dazed. Then he drew his breath quickly, and put his hand to his head. “He—he nearly stunned me,” he said. “The devil!” I answered. “I wasn’t ready.” “No.” “Did he knock me down?” “Ay—me too.” He was silent for some time, sitting limply. Then he pressed his hand against the back of his head, saying, “My head does sing!” He tried to get up, but failed. “Good God!—being knocked into this state by a damned keeper!” “Come on,” I said, “let’s see if we can’t get indoors.” “No!” he said quickly, “we needn’t tell them—don’t let them know.” I sat thinking of the pain in my own chest, and wishing I could remember hearing Annable’s jaw smash, and wishing that my knuckles were more bruised than they were—though that was bad enough. I got up, and helped George to rise. He swayed, almost pulling me over. But in a while he could walk unevenly. “Am I,” he said, “covered with clay and stuff?” “Not much,” I replied, troubled by the shame and confusion with which he spoke. “Get it off,” he said, standing still to be cleaned. I did my best. Then we walked about the fields for a time, gloomy, silent, and sore. Suddenly, as we went by the pond-side, we were startled by great, swishing black shadows that swept just above our heads. The swans were flying up for shelter, now that a cold wind had begun to fret Nethermere. They swung down on to the glassy mill-pond, shaking the moonlight in flecks across the deep shadows; the night rang with the clacking of their wings on the water; the stillness and calm were broken; the moonlight was furrowed and scattered, and broken. The swans, as they sailed into shadow, were dim, haunting spectres; the wind found us shivering. “Don’t—you won’t say anything?” he asked as I was leaving him. “No.” “Nothing at all—not to anybody?” “No.” “Good-night.”