Some hours later, when the sun was quite high, men began to march
about and scores of shots were fired a long way off, also a wounded
cock-pheasant fell near to us and fluttered away, making a queer noise
in its throat. It looked very funny stumbling along on one leg with its
beak gaping and two of the long feathers in its tail broken.

"I know what this is," I said to my sister. "Let's be gone before they
shoot us. I've had enough of being shot."

So off we went, rushing past a boy by his fire, who yelled and threw a
stick at us. But as it happened, on the borders of the property of the
Red-faced Man there were poachers who knew that hares would come out
of the wood on this day of the shooting and had made ready for us by
setting wire nooses in the gaps of the hedges through which we ran. I
got my foot into one of these but managed to shake it off. My sister
was not so lucky, for her head went into another of them. She kicked and
tore, but the more she struggled the tighter drew the noose.

I watched her for a little while until one of the poachers ran up with a
stick.

Then I went away, as I could not bear to see her beaten to death, and
that was the end of my sister. So now I was the only one left alive of
our family, except perhaps some younger brothers whom I did not know,
though I think it was one of these that afterwards I saw shot quite dead
by Giles. He went over and over and lay as still as though he had never
moved in all his life. Death seems a very wonderful thing, Mahatma, but
I won't ask you what it is because I perceive that you can't answer.