A couple of troopers were riding at a quick trot along the road to the left, and coming in my direction. They were at a considerable distance, and I should reach the junction long before them. I determined to trust to fortune and take the other road.
They soon caught sight of me, and as the men pursuing me kept up their fire, the two in front hustled their horses into a gallop, evidently thinking something was wrong, and intending to cut me off and stop me.
They saw me turn into the right road, checked their horses, leapt into the fields, and came galloping across to intercept me. This was not practicable, however, because the point for which they were making was nearer to me by the road than to them by the fields, and after they had galloped half across the fields they called to me to stop. Perceiving my advantage, my answer was to urge my horse forward, till he was straining every nerve and flying over the ground like the gallant beast he was.
Then one of them reined up suddenly, and being well within range, he sat as steady as a rock on his horse, levelled his piece, and fired. Fortunately for me he was quite as bad a marksman as the majority of such men are, and the bullet whistled harmlessly by me as I dashed past at the same headlong speed. His companion had, however, come much nearer, and when he found he could not intercept me, he too halted and fired after me in his turn.
He also missed me, but I felt my horse give a violent change in his stride, and immediately begin to slacken speed. I looked around anxiously and found, to my intense alarm and consternation, that he was wounded, and had gone dead lame on his off hind leg.
For the first time I was inclined to despair. Behind me were five well-mounted men eagerly bent on my capture, and before me lay at least three miles of unknown road—even supposing that I was riding in the right direction—while my horse was already beginning to stagger in his stride. But my blood was up. I would not be taken alive, and I resolved to fight so long as I could lift a finger in self-defence.
Flight was now out of the question, however. Wounded as he was, my horse could not have carried me to the frontier had I been able to ease his pace, which was of course impossible. I could fight better on foot than on the back of a wounded horse, moreover, and I began to think desperately of my best course.
I drew out the trooper’s carbine, put the ammunition into my pockets, and looked about for the most likely spot for a last stand. About half a mile ahead of me I spied a peasant’s cottage half in ruins, lying a little distance from the lane. Just the place for me! I urged my horse to the last effort, and he answered gallantly, as if he understood how dire was my need. But he was reeling badly when we reached the spot I was heading for; and the two men behind raised a glad shout as they saw me pull up, slip from the horse, and make a dash, carbine in hand, for the cover of the ruined cottage.
They both fired at me as I ran, a cowardly act that filled me with rage. Hitherto I had tried to avoid shedding blood, but I sent that thought to the winds now as I sprang behind the shelter of the welcome walls and turned to settle accounts with them. Armed as I was, I believed I could for a time hold the place against a party twice as strong as that which was coming against me, and I was so mad in my rage and disappointment, that I swore I would shoot without mercy any living soul that came within range.
The two soldiers came galloping up to the point where my horse had now fallen, and they stood chuckling at the successful shot which had wounded him.