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Updated: June 6, 2025
The little soldier is yet to reckon with; but we are three; and Zmai did quite well with the potato sack." Chauvenet rode ahead and addressed a few words to Zmai. "The little man must be found before we finish. There must be no mistake about it."
Then he turned into the room to curse Zmai, while Durand with a towel and water sought to ease the ache in the big fellow's head and cleanse his face. "So that beggarly little servant did it, did he? He stole that paper I had given you, did he? What do you imagine I brought you to this country for if you are to let two stupid fools play with you as though you were a clown?"
The dust in the bag caused the man inside to cough, but save for the one exclamation he had not spoken. Chauvenet and Durand conferred in low tones while Zmai drew out a tether strap and snapped it to the curb-bit of the captive's horse. "The fellow takes it pretty coolly," remarked Durand, lighting a fresh cigarette. "What are you going to do with him ?"
Chauvenet slipped down and ran forward with the quick, soft glide of a cat and caught the bridle of the stranger's horse. The horseman struggled in Zmai's great arms, and his beast plunged wildly. No words passed. The rider had kicked his feet out of the stirrups and gripped the horse hard with his legs. His arms were flung up to protect his head, over which Zmai tried to force the sack.
"Your name," repeated Armitage, "is Zmai Miletich; your home is, or was, in the village of Toplica, where you were a blacksmith until you became a thief. You are employed as an assassin by two gentlemen known as Chauvenet and Durand do you follow me?" The man was indeed following him with deep engrossment.
He soothed the restless animals in low tones, the light of his cigarette shaking oddly in the dark with the movement of his lips. The horse ceased to plunge; Zmai held its rider erect with his left arm while the right drew the sack down over the head and shoulders of the prisoner. "Tie him," said Chauvenet; and Zmai buckled a strap about the man's arms and bound them tight.
The revolvers of Zmai and Chauvenet cracked together, and they, too, turned their horses into the wood, and away they all went, leaving the road clear. "My horse got it that time!" shouted Claiborne. "So did I," replied Armitage; "but never you mind, old man, we've got them cornered now." Claiborne glanced at Armitage and saw his right hand, still holding his revolver, go to his shoulder.
Oscar reflected, glancing up and down the highway. Faintly very softly through the night he heard the orchestra at the hotel, playing for the dance. The little soldier unbuttoned his coat, drew the revolver from his belt, and thrust it into his coat pocket. Zmai was drawing nearer, advancing rapidly, now that he had gained his bearings.
Chauvenet studied the lines of the erect, silent figure as Zmai loosened the strap, drew off the bag, and stepped back toward the table on which he had laid his revolver for easier access. "Mr. John Armitage " Chauvenet, his revolver half raised, had begun an ironical speech, but the words died on his lips.
"That will do," said Armitage, grinning at the ease with which he identified the man. "You understand that it is wholly irregular for us to let such a matter pass without acting " said the purser. "It would serve no purpose, and might do harm. I will take the responsibility." And John Armitage made a memorandum in his notebook: "Zmai ; travels as Peter Ludovic."
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