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Updated: June 6, 2025
His narrow forehead was drawn into minute wrinkles; his small eyes seemed to recede into his head; his great body turned uneasily. "I ask you again," repeated Armitage, "whether you follow me. There must be no mistake." Oscar, anxious to take his own part in the conversation, prodded Zmai in the ribs with a pistol barrel, and the big fellow growled and nodded his head.
"Who goes there?" shouted the rider; while Chauvenet and Durand bent their eyes toward him, their hands tight on their bridles, and listened, waiting for Zmai. They heard a sudden rush of steps, the impact of his giant body as he flung himself upon the shrinking horse; and then a cry of alarm and rage.
Zmai was only a dim figure against the dark meadow, which he was slowly crossing from the side farthest from the Claiborne house. He stopped several times as though uncertain of his whereabouts, and then clambered over a stone wall that formed one side of the sheepfold, passed it and strode on toward Oscar and the road. "It is mischief that brings him from the hills yes?"
Now," he said to the man in deliberate German, "I shall say a few things to you which I am very anxious for you to understand. You are a Servian." The man nodded. "Your name is Zmai Miletich." The man shifted his great bulk uneasily in his chair and fastened his lusterless little eyes upon Armitage.
"We will take him to his own place it is near and coax the papers out of him; then we'll find a precipice and toss him over. It is a simple matter." Zmai handed Chauvenet the revolver he had taken from the silent man on the horse. "I am ready," he reported. "Go ahead; we follow;" and they started toward the bungalow, Zmai riding beside the captive and holding fast to the led-horse.
He clutched his revolver tight, brought up his elbows for greater ease in running, and sped after Zmai, now a blur on the starlighted sheep pasture. The slope was gradual and a pretty feature of the landscape by day; but it afforded a toilsome path for runners.
At the shot Zmai cried aloud in his curiously small voice and clapped his hands to his head. "Stop; I want the letter!" shouted Oscar in German. The man turned slowly, as though dazed, and, with a hand still clutching his head, half-stumbled and half-ran toward the sheds, with Oscar at his heels.
Zmai put his hand on the wall and prepared to vault. "A moment only, comrade. You seem to be in a hurry; it must be a business that brings you from the mountains yes?" "I have no time for you," snarled the Servian. "Be gone!" and he shook himself impatiently and again put his hand on the wall. "One should not be in too much haste, comrade;" and Oscar thrust Zmai back with his finger-tips.
"It is a mistake. If your Excellency would go away for an hour he should never know where the buzzards found this large carcass." "Tush! I would not trust his valuable life to you. Get up!" he commanded, and Oscar jerked Zmai to his feet. "You deserve nothing at my hands, but I need a discreet messenger, and you shall not die to-night, as my worthy adjutant recommends.
The man who stood blinking from the sudden burst of light was not John Armitage, but Captain Claiborne. The perspiration on Claiborne's face had made a paste of the dirt from the potato sack, which gave him a weird appearance. He grinned broadly, adding a fantastic horror to his visage which caused Zmai to leap back toward the door.
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