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Updated: May 5, 2025
Then he was silent, though in the wavering flame of the fire Claiborne saw that his lips still muttered prayers for the Servian's soul.
The Servian's face what could be seen of it for hair grew sombre, and he spat excessively. "Curses on the Gentile!" he growled low in his throat. "On him, but not on the money, brother," coaxed the girl, stooping to pat his face. "It's fine work, cheating the rye. But jealous you must not be, if the gold is to chink in our pockets." Kara still frowned. "Were you my romi, sister " "Aye, if I were.
"We expected you; you are a bad hand with the knife," grunted Oscar, and feeling the bellows-like chest beside him expand, as though in preparation for a renewal of the fight, he suddenly wrenched himself free of the Servian's grasp, leaped away a dozen paces to the shelter of a great pine, and turned, revolver in hand. "Throw up your hands," he yelled.
Zmai swerved and shook himself free while he fiercely cursed his foe. Oscar's hands slipped on the fellow's hot blood that ran from a long crease in the side of his head. As they fell the pen door snapped free, and out into the starry pasture thronged the frightened sheep. "The letter give me the letter!" commanded Oscar, his face close to the Servian's.
The use of a strange tongue added to the Servian's bewilderment, and he fled toward the gate, with Oscar hard after him. Then Armitage suddenly leaped out of the shadows directly in his path and stopped him with a leveled revolver. "Easy work, Oscar! Take the gentleman's gun and be sure to find his knife." The task was to Oscar's taste, and he made quick work of the Servian's pockets.
Armitage had lost his hat in the area; his light walking-stick lay in the middle of the floor; his inverness coat hung wet and bedraggled about him; his shirt was crumpled and soiled. But his air of good humor and his tame acceptance of capture seemed to increase the Servian's caution, and he backed away toward the inner door with his revolver still pointed at Armitage's head.
You will please see that the cylinder of your revolver is in good order and prepare to act as clerk of our court-martial. If the prisoner moves, shoot him." He spoke these last words very deliberately in German, and the Servian's small eyes blinked his comprehension.
In the dusk of starlight Durand saw Zmai dismount and felt the Servian's big rough hand touch his in passing the bridle of his horse. "Wait!" said the Servian. The horse of the unknown paused, neighed again, and refused to go farther. A man's deep voice encouraged him in low tones.
It was the voice of Durand speaking in the Servian dialect; and Zmai opened his mouth to explain. As the big fellow roared his reply Armitage snatched from the rack a heavy iron boiling-pot, swung it high by the bail with both hands and let it fly with all his might at the Servian's head, upturned in the earnestness of his bawling.
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