“Then you give Lieutenant von Bertheim’s life for his,” Ompertz urged, bitterly baulked. “In Heaven’s name, let me put a bullet through his lying brain, and do a good deed for once.”
But she would not consent. “If he swears on his honour that he will release the Lieutenant, his life shall be spared,” she said.
Ompertz groaned at the throwing away of this chance. “His honour! You will repent it if you trust to that,” he said, as he tightened his grip on the Count’s throat, since he might not shoot him.
But Ruperta saw his intention, and insisted that he should relax his hold. “You hear, Count?” she said.
“I swear,” he gasped.
“Of course he swears,” growled Ompertz.
For some moments Irromar lay panting; the soldier looking down on him with a grim hankering that was almost comic. Suddenly, from a position in which most men would have been helpless, the Count, who seemed one compact mass of muscle, contrived by a convulsive effort to throw himself on his side, and a desperate struggle began. The suddenness of the effort had taken Ompertz by surprise, and so at some disadvantage. Still, he welcomed the renewed struggle, since it gave him an excuse for shooting. But once, when he might have fired with deadly effect, he hesitated through fear of hitting Ruperta who had seized one of the Count’s arms, and then, when he did fire, the bullet seemed to take no effect at all. With an exclamation of disappointment, he dropped the pistol, and set himself to grapple in deadly earnest with his formidable adversary. But great as was his strength, it was pitted now against one of the strongest sets of muscles in Europe. Little by little the Count got the advantage, he was a skilful wrestler and knew all the tricks of that art, so that not even Ruperta’s weight hanging on to his arm made the struggle evenly balanced. Before long he was able to force Ompertz backwards and, by a dexterous twist, to spring clear of him. It was only just in time, for Ruperta had taken Ompertz’ sword, and was only hesitating to use it from fear of striking the wrong man as they swayed and turned in their desperate encounter.
Now the Count was free. “Quick! the sword!” Ompertz cried, as he recovered his balance and sprang to her for the weapon. There was a loud laugh of mockery, and, almost before Ompertz had turned to rush after him, the Count had disappeared in the darkness. Sword in hand, the soldier followed as best he could, only to be brought up very soon by the manifest hopelessness of the pursuit and the fear of missing the Princess. To her he returned, baffled and fuming.
“I said you would regret it, Highness,” was his reproachful greeting.
She was pale and trembling slightly from the excitement. “It cannot be helped,” she replied, with a touch of authority. “I am sorry for your sake, but I could not have the man, whatever his crimes, done to death like that.”