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A single rifle-shot rang out through the dun grey dawn, travelling down the hillside and along the valley of Beau Desir to the ears of one man at least in the little settlement.
Gregory Dene opened the door of his house, and standing upon the wooden floor of his piazza, looked out towards the hills. A little wreath of white smoke was floating downwards; in the clear silence of the unrisen day he could hear distinctly the sound of a galloping horse coming towards him down the winding road. Angus joined him in a moment, half-dressed and with grave face. He was a man of peace, and Dene's words had been a trouble to him. All night long he had lain awake wondering how long it might be before the first blow would fall. The sound of this rifle-shot in the early dawn had seemed like an answer to him.