The shot was answered by others, and the place seemed alive with men. But I was near to the horses now, and could see them in the little clump of trees where I had told Markov to wait.
“Have you seen any horsemen about?” I asked, as I sprang into the saddle.
“No, sir,” replied the groom, but at that moment the sound of galloping came from both directions.
There was going to be a tussle after all, it seemed.
“You have your pistols. If anyone tries to stop us, you have my orders to fire—but only at the horses, mind. Follow me close.”
We were on a small heath, and I pricked my horse into an easy canter in the direction I had to take to get to the place of which Zoiloff had told me.
“Halt! Who goes there?” and the horseman checked his steed with a rattle of steel that told me he was a cavalryman.
“A friend,” said I, but not drawing rein.
“Halt!” came the cry again. The horseman behind was now coming up fast, and I could hear the sounds of the others scurrying after us on foot.
“I’m in a hurry, and can’t wait,” I said.