A PAGE FROM TASSO
For a long time Maurice rode with his head almost touching the coal black mane of his gallant Mecklenberg.Twice he glanced back to see who followed, but the volume of dust which rolled after him obscured all behind.He could hear the far-off hammer of hoofs, but this, mingling with the noise of his own horse, confused him as to the number of pursuers.He reasoned that he was well out of range, for there came no report of firearms.The road presently described a semi-circle, passing through a meager orchard.Once beyond this he turned again in the saddle.
"Only one; that is not so bad as it might be.It is one to one."But a second glance told him who this solitary pursuer was."The devil!" he laughed--as one of Tasso's heroes might have laughed!--"The devil! how that man loves me!" He was confident that the white horse would never overtake the black.
On they flew, pursued and pursuer.At length Maurice bit his lip and frowned.The white horse was growing larger; the distance between was lessening, slowly but certainly.
"Good boy!" he said encouragingly to the Mecklenberg."Good boy!"Deserted farm houses swept past; hills rose and vanished, but still the white horse crept up, up, up.The distance ere another half mile had gone had diminished to four hundred yards; from four hundred it fell to three hundred, from three hundred to two hundred.The Mecklenburg was doing glorious work, but the marvelous stride of the animal in the rear was matchless.
Suddenly Maurice saw a tuft of the red plume on his helmet spring out ahead of him and sail away, and a second later came the report.One, he counted; four more were to follow.Next a stream of fire gassed along his cheek, and something warm trickled down the side of his neck.Two, he counted, his face now pale and set.The third knocked his scabbard into the air.
Quickly he shifted his saber to the left, dropped the reins and drew his own revolver.He understood.He was not to be taken prisoner.Beauvais intended to kill him offhand.Only the dead keep secrets.Maurice flung about and fired three consecutive times.The white horse reared, and the shako of his master fell into the dust, but there was no other result.As Maurice pressed the trigger for the fourth time the revolver was violently wrenched from his hand, and a thousand needles seemed to be quivering in the flesh of his arm and hand.
"My God, what a shot!" he murmured."I am lost!"Simultaneous with the fifth and last shot came sensation somewhat like that caused by a sound blow in the middle of the back.Strange, but he felt no pain, neither was there an accompanying numbness.Then he remembered his cuirass, which was of steel an eighth of an inch thick.It had saved his life.The needles began to leave his right hand and arm, and he knew that he had received no injury other than a shock.He passed the saber back to his right hand.He had no difficulty in holding it.
Gradually his grip grew strong and steady.
Beauvais was now within twenty yards of Maurice.Had he been less eager and held his fire up to this point, Maurice had been a dead man.The white horse gained every moment.A dull fury grew into life in Maurice's heart.Instead of continuing the race, he brought the Mecklenberg to his haunches and wheeled.He made straight for Beauvais, who was surprised at this change of tactics.In the rush they passed each other and the steel hummed spitefully through space.Both wheeled again.
"Your life or mine!" snarled Maurice.His coolness, however, was proportionate to his rage.For the first time in his life the lust to kill seized him.
"It shall be yours, damn you!" replied Beauvais.
"The Austrian ambassador has your history; kill me or not, you are lost." Maurice made a sweep at his enemy's head and missed.
Beauvais replied in kind, and it flashed viciously off the point of Maurice's saber.He had only his life to lose, but it had suddenly become precious to him; Beauvais had not only his life, but all that made life worth living.His onslaught was terrible.
Besides, he was fighting against odds; he wore no steel protector.Maurice wore his only a moment longer.A cut in the side severed the lacings, and the sagging of the cuirass greatly handicapped him.He pressed the spurs and dashed away, while Beauvais cursed him for a cowardly cur.Maurice, by this maneuver, gained sufficient time to rid himself of the cumbersome steel.What he lost in protection, he gained in lightness and *******.Shortly Beauvais was at him again.The time for banter had passed; they fought grimly and silently.The end for one was death.Beauvais knew that if his antagonist escaped this time the life he longed for, the power and honor it promised, would never be his.On his side, Maurice was equally determined to live.
The horses plunged and snorted, reared and swayed and bit.
Sometimes they carried their masters several yards apart, only to come smashing together again.
The sun was going down, and a clear, white light prevailed.Afar in the field a herd was grazing, but no one would call them to the sheds.Master and mistress had long since taken flight.
The duel went on.Maurice was growing tired.By and by he began to rely solely on the defense.When they were close, Beauvais played for the point; the moment the space widened he took to the edge.He saw what Maurice felt--the weakening, and he indulged in a cruel smile.They came close; he made as though to give the point.Maurice, thinking to anticipate, reached.Quick as light Beauvais raised his blade and brought it down with crushing force, standing the while in the stirrups.The blow missed Maurice's head by an inch, but it sank so deeply in his left shoulder that it splintered the collar bone and stopped within a hair of the great artery that runs underneath.
