“You must—you must! They’ll take me just the same whether you go or remain. So why should not you at least escape?”
Yes, his thought told him in a flash, it would be just the same with the countess. That being the case he should think of Sonya—think of his safety, which was Sonya’s safety.
“I’ll pretend to help them,” she went on breathlessly. “I’ll try to hold you; we’ll pretend to have a struggle—that’ll make them more lenient with me.” This bit of play-acting was an inspired device for clearing herself with Prince Berloff. “And if you get away, don’t go near a railway station; the prince will have men waiting for you at them all. Now!”
She seized him and turned backward toward the pursuers. “Hurry!—Hurry!” she cried to them. “I have him!” And to Drexel she whispered: “Now struggle to break away from me. Be rough—it will be better for me if I have some marks to show.”
They struggled—squirmed and swayed about in the rocking little vehicle—the countess encouraged by the pursuers; and in the struggle she deftly removed from his pocket the documents that were to excuse his death.
“Now jump!” she whispered.
He leaped forth. Then, all within the space of an instant, he went rolling in the snow—there were four cracks—fine, dry snow-spray leaped up about him—and at the instant’s end he was on his feet and dashing into the forest.
Crack—crack—crack went the guns blindly behind him, and the wild bullets whined among the branches. The horsemen plunged in after him, but were thrust back by the arms of the close-growing wide-spreading trees. They sprang from their horses and gave chase on foot. But Drexel, going at the best speed he could make in the knee-deep snow, weaving among the trees, stumbling often, scratching his face on the undergrowth, heard their voices grow fainter and fainter—and when he paused after half an hour, completely blown, he could hear no sound at all.
For the time, at least, he was safe.