The Mecklenburg was doing glorious work, but the
marvelous stride of the animal in the rear was matchless.
Suddenly Maurice saw a tuft of the red plume on his helmet
spring out ahead of him and sail away, and a second later came
the report. One, he counted; four more were to follow. Next a
stream of fire gassed along his cheek, and something warm
trickled down the side of his neck. Two, he counted, his face
now pale and set. The third knocked his scabbard into the air.
Quickly he shifted his saber to the left, dropped the reins and
drew his own revolver. He understood. He was not to be taken
prisoner. Beauvais intended to kill him offhand. Only the dead
keep secrets. Maurice flung about and fired three consecutive
times. The white horse reared, and the shako of his master fell
into the dust, but there was no other result. As Maurice pressed
the trigger for the fourth time the revolver was violently
wrenched from his hand, and a thousand needles seemed to be
quivering in the flesh of his arm and hand.
"My God, what a shot!" he murmured. "I am lost!"
Simultaneous with the fifth and last shot came sensation
somewhat like that caused by a sound blow in the middle of the
back.
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