“To murder her, you mean?”
“It is no murder. To kill her for your sake, I swear.”
“Where has he gone?”
“To the priest at Lalwor—the hill village.”
“How far is that, and in which direction?”
“Four leagues up the hills to the south.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“Less than an hour.”
“Come;” and I put my hand on his shoulders, and led him out of the tent. “I have no use for spies and traitors here. You can go after him. Get away, or I’ll set the dog on you;” and with that I shoved him from me—with a parting kick to which the rage I felt gave additional force. He limped a few paces and then turned and looked back at me. “Go,” I thundered, making a step toward him, and then he ran in a limping fashion comical enough to have drawn a smile had the position been less grave.
I had frightened enough of the truth out of him to show me that no ill results could follow for a few hours. It would take Petrov some three hours to reach the hill village; some time would be needed to get together a posse, and I felt that I might safely wait an hour or two longer in the hope that Georgev would arrive.