must have it, take it," and gun and revolver rang out at the same moment. But Rupert—never did his nerve fail him—hit, the King missed; Herbert saw the Count stand for an instant with his smoking barrel in his hand, looking at the King who lay on the ground. Then Rupert walked towards the door. I wish I had seen his face then! Did he frown or smile? Was triumph or chagrin uppermost? Remorse? Not he!
He reached the door and passed through. That was the last Herbert saw of him; but the fourth actor in the drama, the wordless player whose part had been so momentous, took the stage. Limping along, now whining in sharp agony, now growling in fierce anger, with blood flowing but hair bristling, the hound Boris dragged himself across the room, through the door, after Rupert of Hentzau. Herbert listened, raising his head from the ground. There was a growl, an oath, the sound of a scuffle. Rupert must have turned in time to receive the dog's spring. The beast, maimed and crippled by his shattered shoulder, did not reach his enemy's face, but his teeth tore away the bit of cloth that we had found held in the vice of his jaws. Then came another shot, a laugh, retreating steps, and a door slammed. With that last sound Herbert awoke to the fact of the Count's escape; with weary efforts he dragged himself into the passage. The
