“If he comes here?”
“Young Bernenstein will die before he suffers him to reach the king.”
“Sapt!”
“Ay?”
“Be kind to her.”
“Bless the man, yes!”
“Good-by.”
“And good luck.”
At a swift canter Rudolf darted round the drive that led from the stables, by the moat, to the old forest road behind; five minutes brought him within the shelter of the trees, and he rode on confidently, meeting nobody, save here and there a yokel, who, seeing a man ride hard with his head averted, took no more notice of him than to wish that he himself could ride abroad instead of being bound to work. Thus Rudolf Rassendyll set out again for the walls of Strelsau, through the forest of Zenda. And ahead of him, with an hour’s start, galloped the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim, again a man, and a man with resolution, resentment, and revenge in his heart.
The game was afoot now; who could tell the issue of it?