He
seemed ready to spring up and fire.
No time to lose, thought Rudolph; and rising, measured his distance with
a painful, giddy exactness. He would have counted to himself before
leaping, but his throat was too dry. He flinched a little, then shot
through the air, and landed heavily, one knee on each side, pinning the
fellow down as he grappled underneath for the throat. Almost in the same
movement he had bounded on foot again, holding both hands above his
head, as high as he could withdraw them. The body among the weeds lay
cold, revoltingly indifferent to stratagem or violence, in the same
tense attitude, which had nothing to do with life.
Rudolph dropped his hands, and stood confounded by his own brutal
discourtesy. Wutzler, crawling out from the jars, scrambled joyfully
up the bank.
"You have killed him?" quavered the dry little voice. "You are very
brave!"
"No, no," cried Rudolph, earnestly. "He was, already."
By the scarlet headgear, and a white symbol on the back of his jacket,
the man at their feet was one of the musketeers. He had left the
firing-line, crawled away in the dark, and found a quiet spot to die in.
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