This man that she had led to this lonely death, she loved him!
She had, in the pursuit of her profession, lured many a man to acts or confidences that had sent him to prison, to frozen exile on far Siberian plains, even to death by bullet or hangman’s noose. For more than one of these victims she had felt a liking—which, however, had never stayed her purpose; and when the man was gone, and his price was in her hand, she had never wished her act undone. Her original liking for Drexel she had lightly classified as one with these others—and only this climacteric moment revealed the truth.
She loved him—she had set this trap for him—and now she was powerless to save him!
She sprang up and began wildly to belabour the horse. The poor beast, under this terrific beating, did manage to make a little spurt and for a moment they held their own.
“You are under arrest! Stop—or we fire!” bellowed the captain.
“Do you think you could shoot them?” gasped the countess over her shoulder.
“I have only the seven cartridges in my pistol. And I’m a poor shot.”
“Try! Try!”
“If I fire, all four of them will fire. They have carbines. If they begin to shoot it may mean that you’ll be killed. It’s better for you to be arrested.”
“Don’t think of me!” she cried frantically. “I’d rather be killed. Shoot! Shoot!”