"Is it hurt, my little one, my treasure, is it scratched? Keep their hoofs away, Bobo, hold them still a moment while I raise one end."
He knelt in the snow and peered eagerly beneath the sleigh.
"Sacre—ment!" cried the older man, "What is he after? Quick, on him, Pierre! Don't let him escape."
The lackey moved cautiously forward, and then gave a sudden leap back as the boyish figure sprang to his feet, clasping a dark, oblong object in his arms.
"A bomb, a bomb! In the name of all the saints! If he should drop it they were doomed, they were dead men!"
The eyes of the lackey were bulging with terror and he stood riveted to the spot. In the meantime the young man had snatched out his watch and was holding it up into a patch of moonlight.
"Twenty past the hour!" he exclaimed, "and old Galitsin fuming, I'll be bound! I'll have to make a run for it. Hey, Bobo!"
As he spoke, an iron hand came down on his shoulder and he looked up amazed into a pair of eyes, small and black and crossed, flashing with fury.
"Drop it," hissed a voice, "and I'll throttle you as you stand! Traitor! Assassin! Your driver obeyed orders, did he? You knew? Vermin, you ran us down! How did you know? Who betrayed me?—Who?"
The youth stood motionless for a moment in astonishment. He was helpless as a girl in that vicious grasp that was bearing him under slowly, relentlessly. "For the love of heaven," he cried, "Let go my arm, you brute, you'll sprain a muscle! Be careful!"