The bullets were the same.
A thrill of despair ran through Oswald.

He knows now how a hero feels when he is innocently accused of a crime and the judge is putting on the black cap, and the evidence is convulsive and all human aid is despaired of.
'I can't help it,' he said, 'we didn't kill it, and that's all there is to it.' The white-whiskered magistrate may have been master of the fox-hounds, but he was not master of his temper, which is more important, I should think, than a lot of beastly dogs.
He said several words which Oswald would never repeat, much less in his own conversing, and besides that he called us 'obstinate little beggars'.
Then suddenly Albert's uncle entered in the midst of a silence freighted with despairing reflections.

The M.F.H.got up and told his tale: it was mainly lies, or, to be more polite, it was hardly any of it true, though I supposed he believed it.
'I am very sorry, sir' said Albert's uncle, looking at the bullets.
'You'll excuse my asking for the children's version ?' 'Oh, certainly, sir, certainly,' fuming, the fox-hound magistrate replied.
Then Albert's uncle said, 'Now Oswald, I know I can trust you to speak the exact truth.' So Oswald did.
Then the white-whiskered fox-master laid the bullets before Albert's uncle, and I felt this would be a trial to his faith far worse than the rack or the thumb-screw in the days of the Armada.
And then Denny came in.

He looked at the fox on the table.
'You found it, then ?' he said.
The M.F.H.would have spoken but Albert's uncle said, 'One moment, Denny; you've seen this fox before ?' 'Rather,' said Denny; 'I--' But Albert's uncle said, 'Take time.

Think before you speak and say the exact truth.