Zarka gave no sign that the words stung him. In a tone as quiet as Von Tressen’s he continued: “No; that is nothing to you, my brave fellow. But when I tell you,” and here his voice sank to a hissing whisper, “that unless you consent to face my pistol now, I will kill you, yes, kill you as assuredly as there is a sun in the sky, kill you within a month, you will perhaps, knowing something of my character and that there is nothing on earth I dare not do, when once I am resolved, I say perhaps you will see the desirability of meeting me in fair fight without further delay.”
Von Tressen laughed scornfully. “Not even on the flattering grounds that I am afraid of you,” he replied. “And I must ask you, Count, to leave the tent, as we are busy.”
For an instant Zarka’s eyes blazed. Galabin watching keenly, saw the evil light and drew a step nearer. But the murderous impulse, for such it surely must have been, was stifled for the moment, and the Count stood silent as meditating his parting words. However, Galabin spoke first.
“I fancy, Count, instead of threatening honourable men you will have enough to do to look after your own safety. If you do not immediately quit this tent we shall consider it our duty to arrest you, in anticipation of those whom the law will have put upon your track in a few hours’ time.”
Zarka, who had not appeared to notice him before, now turned his savage glance from the Lieutenant. “You too, Herr Galabin,” he said with the same ugly grin. “You must pardon me if I seemed to ignore you. When I have settled accounts with your friend I shall have an opportunity of meting out to you the reward of—a spy. I will not detain you, gentlemen. The short time before you should be yours. The future and a certain lady are for me. Au revoir, gentlemen.” He turned abruptly, and next moment was gone.
Galabin laughed, though not very confidently. “The sooner we are out of this forest, and the Herr Graf is in the safe keeping of the law, the better for us all, my friend. Bela,” he called, “which way did the Count go?”
“Towards Rozsnyo, mein Herr.”
“Then let us lose no time in making for Gorla’s and so for civilization,” Galabin observed to Von Tressen. “The man is desperate, and the symptoms are none the less dangerous for being suppressed.”
Meanwhile Count Zarka had mounted and ridden back to Rozsnyo. He knew that, for a time at any rate, the dangerous game he had been playing was up; his only chance now was to put the mountains and the frontier between himself and Gersdorff’s long arm. The mere failure of the political side of the business would have troubled him but little; he was a gambler who knew how to lose as well as win, and at most this discomfiture would mean but a year or two’s exile till the affair was forgotten, or crowded out of attention by more engrossing international movements. What made him clench his wolfish teeth, scowl as he rode along, and startle the forest denizens by loud ejaculations of rage, was the maddening thought of failure nearer to his heart, that he had been worsted in the fight for Philippa Carlstein. It was that which made him vow and curse, and dig his heels savagely into the roan’s flanks.