“Once more I demand zat you tell me vere is your despatch, or vat it contained. It is ze last time. Refuse, and you vill be shot. Don’t flatter yourself zat I shall hesitate.”
“I have no information to give,” replied Maurice, between puffs of his cigarette.
The Count strode to him, snatched the cigarette from his lips, and bade his men tie his hands behind. When this was done he called forward one of the Albanians from Elbasan.
“Shoot that man,” he said, pointing to Maurice.
The Albanian lifted his rifle slowly. Maurice faced him squarely, with not so much as the tremor of an eyelid. The man hesitated, looked from Slavianski to the prisoner and back again, then grounded his rifle.
“No, no, excellence,” he said. “In fair fight, yes; for blood, yes; it is my duty. I have killed five men for blood; but I will not shoot a man like a dog. If that is the way in your country, do it yourself; it is not our way.”
Cries of applause broke from his comrades. Slavianski turned angrily towards his own countrymen. There was a something in their demeanour that gave him no hope of finding among them an executioner. With a snarl of rage he whipped out his own revolver and pointed it at Maurice, whose eyes looked into his unflinchingly, and whose lips curved in a slight smile. His finger was on the trigger.
“My Government has a long arm, Monsieur le Comte,” said Maurice quietly in French. “Had you not better think it over?”
“Bah!” cried the Count, dropping the muzzle slightly, nevertheless. “Your ambassador at Constantinople has given warning that Englishmen travel in this country at their own risk.”
“True,” replied Maurice, as calmly as if he were discussing a matter quite impersonal; “at their own risk—of interference by the people of the country. You are not an Albanian, Monsieur.”