Gilbert knew it already. In these moments before the last drive he allowed himself to hate. At school he used to box, and his coach used to say to him, ‘Hate him. If you want to win you’ve got to hate that boy’s guts before you go into the ring.’ In that spirit Gilbert Hartlip hated Lionel Stephens. He hated his looks, his youth, his skill, his broad shoulders, his kind eyes, the clean, well-shaped nails on his long fingers; he hated his love for Olivia, and his apparent success with her; he hated his urbanity and good manners; he hated his guts.

‘All right, Jarvis.’

He held out his hand for his loaded gun.

Lionel stood motionless ten yards or so away, Olivia beside him, Percy Maidment and the boy alert behind them, Percy seeming hardly more than half the height of his master. Beyond them stood Sir Randolph in his wide-brimmed hat, with Minnie beside him leaning on a shooting stick, his two loaders behind, the dog Lorna at Charlie Pass’s feet, her eyes fixed on the wood from which the pheasants would come; beyond again was the erect figure of Bob Lilburn, his hat at a slightly rakish angle, Ida beside him solid on her shooting stick, a long silver-fox fur loosely round her neck, his loaders behind him (the second of them quite a young boy whose cap and cartridge bag seemed both too big for him); then came Charles Farquhar in a rather larger-checked tweed than the others, Aline’s figure beside him almost Carolean in outline, with her soft-brimmed velvet hat and its one sweeping feather; a springer spaniel waited behind them with the loaders.

All these, and the next little group, which was Tibor Rakassyi’s, Cornelius Cardew could see as he slowly approached the wood across the water meadow, and stopped by a big willow tree which stood alone in the field. Opposite Tibor the line of the wood began to curve, and the other guns were concealed from Cornelius by the intervening trees. Leaning against the willow tree, Cornelius prepared to watch the shooting; this time he had no intention of disrupting it.

The light, though still good as to visibility, was now the light of evening; it was as if the gold in the scene had been lightly sponged away to give a less emphatic tone, and the sombre greenish-black reinforced; the figures were dark and the background a little misty. Cornelius had to admit to himself that it was a picturesque scene, in this curiously poetic light and stillness, and with the smell of autumn sharp in his nostrils. The element of ritual lent it a kind of solemnity; like so many rituals it required a sacrifice.

That the harvests may be good and the tribe increase, thought Cornelius. He was glad he had turned back.

★

The beaters approached, tapping on the tree-trunks, trampling through the undergrowth. The wood was full of men, and of creatures running. The men stopped; four walked forward, there were several shots. The longer line of beaters moved forward, more birds flew; the shooting now seemed uninterrupted. The noise of the beaters grew louder; the air was full of falling birds and gunfire, the smell of cordite, the sound of shot raining on the leaves, the thump of bodies on the ground.