"Have you--God! my leg that time," with a groan.
For the fire of the carriage had spoken again, and true.
Maurice shut his teeth, drew his revolver, cocked it and applied
the spurs. With a bound he shot past von Mitter, who was cursing
deeply and trying to reload. Maurice did not propose to waste
powder on the driver, but was determined to bring down one of
the carriage horses, which were marvelous brutes for speed.
Scharfenstein kept popping away at the driver, but without
apparent result. Finally Maurice secured the desired range. He
raised the revolver, rested the barrel between the left thumb
and forefinger and pressed the trigger. The nearest carriage
horse lurched to his knees, a bullet in his brain, dragging his
mate with him. The race had come to an end.
At once the two horsemen in front separated; one continued
toward the great forest, while the other took to the hills.
Scharfenstein started in pursuit of the latter. As for the
carriage, it came to an abrupt stand. The driver made a flying
leap toward the lake, but stumbled and fell, and before he could
regain his feet Maurice was off his horse and on his quarry.
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