“I am again, as I might have expected, the victim of your treachery,” Ruperta retorted, full of scornful anger.
He made a deprecating gesture. “You must blame me no more now. The business is out of my hands. The treatment of which you may complain is not mine. I am no longer a free agent.”
His meaning was as obvious as was its falsehood. Ompertz took a step forward.
“Free agent or not, Count,” he said bluffly, “I shall make bold to hold you responsible for the outrage suffered by Lieutenant von Bertheim at the hands of your men. I was just wishing for an interview with you.”
The Count was eyeing him full of stern malignity. “And having chanced upon it, what do you want to say, my fine fellow?” he asked contemptuously.
The ugly look on the soldier’s face deepened. “Only this,” he answered threateningly. “That unless you give an instant order for our friend’s release, this fine fellow will take upon himself to run you through, and that without delay.”
A streak of moonlight falling through the trees showed a smile of ineffable scorn on the Count’s strong face. It also glinted on the barrel of a pistol which he suddenly presented full at the soldier’s breast.
“Silence, you dog!” he commanded. “You need a lesson in the manners befitting a lady’s presence. If you speak another word it will be your last.”
Ruperta sprang between them. “Count, if you harm this man your life shall pay for it. I swear. I have power that may astonish you before long. Yes; I will have you hanged if you do not instantly release the Lieutenant.”
“You are quite mistaken, Princess,” he replied seriously. “The Lieutenant is not my prisoner.”