The road from Zulawce to Zablotow runs at first along the Pruth, in a northerly direction, making a sudden bend eastward and traversing the plain. The commissioner's car had reached this bend, and daylight was fast vanishing, when one of the constables suddenly rose from his seat, giving a searching look across the river.
"What is it?" cried Kapronski, clutching the man's arm; he was short-sighted, and could not see for himself.
"Some dozen horsemen," replied the constable, "Huzuls by the look of them--just bursting from yonder cover and making for the ford."
The commissioner could now distinguish the dark figures approaching. "Let us return," he gasped.
"Impossible," declared the constables. "They will have crossed the river before we could out-flank them." Then to the driver: "Make what speed you can to Zablotow."
And the car shot on quick as lightning, passing the fields of Debeslawce. But the sound of hoofs was carried after them; the horsemen had crossed the ford and were coming on in a quick gallop. The distance between them was fast lessening, and voices could be distinguished. The commissioner had closed his eyes, well-nigh swooning.
"Stop!" cried the men in pursuit. "Stop, or we shall fire!"
"Drive on!" urged the constables. But the car stopped, the coachman dropping the reins. "I have not undertaken to be killed like a dog," he muttered. "Besides, there is no escaping this Taras!"
Another moment and the horsemen were on the spot, surrounding the commissioner's party with pointed pistols. A dark-complexioned fellow, lithe and graceful, with the look of an eagle, appeared to be the leader. "Hand over your muskets," he ordered the constables, and they obeyed.
"You may take yourselves off, then; it is not you we want, only this gentleman of the quill. Be so good as to descend, Mr. Commissioner."