'The Bohemian yonder--the fat man--will shoot round him. His little pig's eyes see farther than others. Besides, the devil has blessed his gun. He cannot miss.'
'What! That tun of flesh?' I cried, for he was pointing to the gross, unwieldy man, at whose saddle-bow I had marked the iron mace. 'Is he a Bohemian?'
Ludwig nodded. 'Count Waska, they call him. There is no man in the camp can shoot with him or drink with him.'
'We shall see,' I said grimly.
I had little hope, however. The Waldgrave was a good shot; but a man was not likely to have a reputation for shooting in such a camp as this, where every one handled pistol or petronel, unless his aim was something out of the common. And listening to the talk round me, I found that Count Waska's comrades took his victory for granted.
Their confidence explained General Tzerclas' anxiety to trap the Waldgrave into shooting. The jealous feeling which had been all on the Waldgrave's side yesterday, had spread to him to-day. He wished to see his rival beaten in my lady's presence.
I longed to disappoint him; I felt sore besides for the honour of Germany. I could not leave my lady, or I would have gone down to see that the Waldgrave had fair play, and a clean pan, and silence when he fired. But I watched with as much excitement as any in the field, all that passed; I doubt if I ever took part in a match myself with greater keenness and interest than I felt as a spectator of this one.
From our elevated position we could see everything, and the sight was a curious one. The rabble of spectators--soldiers and women, sutlers and horse-boys--stretched away in two dark lines, ten deep, being kept off the range by a dozen men armed with whips. The clamour of their hoarse shouting went up continuously, and sometimes almost deafened us. Immediately below us, at the foot of the mound, the champions and their friends were gathered, settling rests, keying up the wheels of their locks, and trying the flints. Owing to the Waldgrave's presence, which somewhat imposed upon the other officers both by reason of his rank and strangeness, the contest seemed likely to be conducted more decently than those which had preceded it. He was invited to shoot first, and when he excused himself on the ground that he was not yet familiar with his gun, Count Waska good-humouredly consented to open the match.
His weapon, I remarked--and I treasured up the knowledge and have since made use of it--was smaller in the bore than the others. He came forward and fired very carelessly, scarcely stooping to the rest; but he hit the figure fairly in the breast with both bullets and retired, a stolid smile on his large countenance.
The Waldgrave was the next to advance, and if he felt one half of the anxiety I felt myself, it was a wonder he let off his gun at all. General Tzerclas had returned to the Countess's side, and was speaking to her; but he paused at the critical moment, and both stood gazing, my lady with her lips parted and her eyes bright. The desire to see the stranger shoot was so general that something like silence prevailed while he aimed. I had time to conjure up half a dozen miseries--the gun might not be true, the powder weak; and then, bang! I saw the figure rock. He had hit it fairly in the breast, and I breathed again.