“Who goes there?”
“Who goes there?” echoed Martin. “But this is a high-road.” And he moved nearer to the wall. The man stepped from the shadow, and his bayonet gleamed again.
“No matter,” he said; “you cannot pass this way.”
“But, my friend—” began Martin, with a protesting laugh. But he never finished the sentence, for Kosmaroff had slipped out of the saddle on the far side, and interrupted him by pushing the bridle into his hand. Then the ex-Cossack ran round at the back of the horses.
The soldier gave a sharp exclamation of surprise, and the next moment his rifle rattled down against the wall. Both men were on the ground now in the water and the mud. There came to Martin's ears the sound of hard breathing, and some muttered words of anger; then a sharp cough, which was not Kosmaroff's cough.
After an instant of dead silence, Kosmaroff rose to his feet.
“First blood,” he said, breathlessly. He went to his horse and wiped his hands upon its mane.
“Bah!” he exclaimed, “how he smelled of bad cigarettes!”
Martin was leaning in the saddle, looking down at the dark form in the mud.
“Oh, he is dead enough,” said Kosmaroff. “I broke his neck. Did you not hear it go?”