"My God! I'll do it," he said. "I'll show you what I've got in me."

George felt suddenly sick. He turned away. He did not see his brother
enter the thicket, but he heard the passage of his body through the leaves
and branches.

"Good-bye, Al," he called.

"Good-bye," came from the thicket.

George felt the sweat upon his forehead. He began mopping his face with
his handkerchief. He heard, as from a remote distance, the voice of the
servant again calling to him that the carriage was waiting. The woodpecker
dropped down through the mottled sunshine and lighted on the trunk of a
tree a dozen feet away. George felt that it was all a dream, and yet
through it all he felt supreme justification. It was the right thing to
do. It was the only thing.

His whole body gave a spasmodic start, as though the revolver had been
fired. It was the voice of Al, close at his back.

"Here's your gun," Al said. "I'll stay."

The servant appeared among the trees, approaching rapidly and calling
anxiously. George put the weapon in his pocket and caught both his
brother's hands in his own.

"God bless you, old man," he murmured ; "and"--with a final squeeze of the
hands--"good luck!"