"For the last time, hands off my horse, or I shall shoot you."
"For the last time. Yield peaceably, or I shall shoot you. Living or dead
I must keep you, I have—"
A flash, the report of a pistol, a death groan interrupted the police master's words. The three horsemen bounded forward into the night. Forward at breakneck speed, but for the sand, that dreadful sand. This is the Rehberg, they know it by the sand in which the horses sink, from which they extricate themselves only to sink again. Yet what matters it if they do make rather slow progress? They will surely reach Spandow before daybreak, and Colonel von Burgsdorf will be cheated out of his precious prisoners.
What is that? What strange sound does the night wind bear to the three riders? Simultaneously all three turn in their saddles and listen.
They hear it quite plainly. It is the noise made by trotting horses. It comes on—it comes nearer.
"Wallenrodt, Waldow! We are pursued!"
"Yes, count, but we have the Rehberg almost behind us, and they must go through it. We have a good start. They will not overtake us."
"Forward, my friends, forward!"
They put spurs to their horses, they press their knees into their flanks, and the animals struggle faster through the sand. In spite of every hindrance they have now reached firmer ground and bound bravely forward. But the noise behind them has not ceased, not even become more remote. They must have good steeds, those pursuers, for they seem to come nearer and nearer.
"Friends, better die than fall into the hands of the enemy!" shouts the count. "I tell you the very moment Burgsdorf touches me I shall shoot myself. Greet my friends for me. Bid them farewell forever!"