me were five well-mounted men eagerly bent on my capture, and before me lay at least three miles of unknown road—even supposing that I was riding in the right direction—while my horse was already beginning to stagger in his stride. But my blood was up. I would not be taken alive, and I resolved to fight so long as I could lift a finger in self-defence.
Flight was now out of the question, however. Wounded as he was, my horse could not have carried me to the frontier had I been able to ease his pace, which was of course impossible. I could fight better on foot than on the back of a wounded horse, moreover, and I began to think desperately of my best course.
I drew out the trooper's carbine, put the ammunition into my pockets, and looked about for the most likely spot for a last stand. About half a mile ahead of me I spied a peasant's cottage half in ruins, lying a little distance from the lane. Just the place for me! I urged my horse to the last effort, and he answered gallantly, as if he understood how dire was my need. But he was reeling badly when we reached the spot I was heading for; and the two men behind raised a glad shout as they saw me pull up, slip from the horse, and make a dash, carbine in hand, for the cover of the ruined cottage.
They both fired at me as I ran, a cowardly act that filled me with rage. Hitherto I had tried to avoid shedding blood, but I sent that thought to the winds now as I sprang behind the shelter of the welcome walls and turned to settle accounts with them. Armed as I was, I believed I could for a time hold the place against a party twice as strong as that which was coming against me, and I was so mad in my rage and
