Soon Scharfenstein came loping down the hill alone.
"I killed his horse," he said, in response to queries, "but he
fled into the woods where I could not follow. A bad night for us,
Carl, a bad night," swinging off his horse. "A boy would have
done better work. Whom have we here?"
"Kopf," said Maurice, "and he has a ball somewhere inside,"
holding up a bloody hand.
"Kopf?" Scharfenstein cocked his revolver.
The maid of honor placed her hands over her ears and screamed
again. Max gazed at her, and, with a short, Homeric laugh,
lowered the revolver.
"Any time will do," he said. "Ah, he opens his eyes."
The prisoner's eyes rolled wildly about. That frowning face
above him . . . was it a vision? Who was it? What was he doing
here?
"Who put you up to this?" demanded Maurice.
"You are choking me!"
"Who, I say?"
"Beauvais."
Scharfenstein and von Mitter looked at each other
comprehensively.
"Who is this Beauvais? Speak!"
"I am dying, Herr . . . Your knees--"
Maurice withdrew his knees. "Beauvais; who is he?"
"Prince . . . Walmoden, formerly of the emperor's staff."
Johann's eyes closed again, and his head fell to one side.
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