Grahame sank back. "Marche, that damned poacher will hang us all. What am I to do?"
"What is it?" asked Jack, in a scarcely audible voice.
"Can't you hear? There's an Uhlan in the road in front. That fool means to kill him."
Jack strained his eyes in the darkness; the road ahead was black and silent.
"You can't see him," whispered Grahame. "Brocard caught the distant rattle of his lance in the stirrup. He's gone to kill him, the bloodthirsty imbecile!"
"To shoot him?" asked Jack, aghast.
"No; he's got his broad wood-knife—that's the way these brutes kill. Hark! Good God!"
A scream rang through the forest; something was coming towards them, too—a horse, galloping, galloping, pounding, thundering past—a frantic horse that tossed its head and tore on through the night, mane flying, bridle loose. And there, crouched on the saddle, two men swayed, locked in a death-clench—an Uhlan with ghostly face and bared teeth, and Brocard, the poacher, cramped and clinging like a panther to his prey, his broad knife flashing in the gloom.
In a second they were gone; far away in the forest the hoof strokes echoed farther and farther, duller, duller, then ceased.
"Drive on," muttered Jack, with lips that could barely form the words.