In reply to Irene's question, Helen
explained the use of these structures; she did so in an off-hand
way, with the proper terms, and would have passed on, but Irene
stood gazing.
"What! They lie in ambush here, whilst the men drive the birds
towards them, to be shot?"
"It's sport," rejoined the other indifferently.
"I see. And here are the old cartridges." A heap of them lay close
by amid the ling. "I don't wonder that Mr. March seemed a little
ashamed of himself."
"But surely you knew all about this sort of thing!" said Mrs.
Borisoff, with a little laugh of impatience.
"No, I didn't."
She had picked up one of the cartridge-cases, and, after examining
it, her eyes wandered about the vast-rolling moor. The wind sang
low; the clouds sailed across the mighty dome of heaven; not a human
dwelling was visible, and not a sound broke upon nature's infinite
calm.
"It amazes me," Irene continued, subduing her voice.
"Incredible that men can come up here just to bang guns and see
beautiful birds fall dead! One would think that what they _saw_ here
would stop their hands--that this silence would fill their minds
and hearts, and make it impossible!"
Her voice had never trembled with such emotion in Helen's hearing.
It was not Irene's habit to speak in this way. She had the native
reticence of English women, preferring to keep silence when she felt
strongly, or to disguise her feeling with irony and jest.
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