Part 33 (2/2)
And now for the first time he saw the Marquis de Nesville, face like a death-mask, one hand on the edge of the wicker balloon-car, which stood in the midst of a circle of cavalry.
”This is not the place nor is this the time to judge your prisoners,” said Rickerl, pus.h.i.+ng his horse up to Von Steyr and scowling down into his face. ”Who called this drum-head court? Is that your province? Oh, in my absence? Well, then, I am here! Do you see me?”
The insult fell like the sting of a lash across Von Steyr's face.
He saluted, and, looking straight into Rickerl's eyes, said, ”Zum Befehl, Herr Hauptmann! I am at your convenience also.”
”When you please!” shouted Rickerl, crimson with fury. ”Retire!”
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, scarcely had he backed his startled horse, when there came a sound of a crus.h.i.+ng blow, a groan, and a soldier staggered back from the balloon-car, his hands to his head, where the shattered helmet hung by one torn gilt cord. In the same instant the marquis, dishevelled, white as a corpse, rose from the wicker car, shaking his steel box above his head. Then, through the ring of nervous, quivering horses the globe of the balloon appeared as by magic--an enormous, looming, yellow sphere, tense, glistening, gigantic.
The horses reared, snorting with fright, the Uhlans clung to their saddles, shouting and cursing, and the huge balloon, swaying from its single rope, pounded and bounced from side to side, knocking beast and man into a chaotic ma.s.s of frantic horses and panic-stricken riders.
With a report like a pistol the rope parted, the great globe bounded and shot up into the air; a tumult of harsh shouts arose; the crazed horses backed, plunged, and scattered, some falling, some bolting into the undergrowth, some rearing and swaying in an ecstasy of terror.
The troopers, helpless, gnas.h.i.+ng their teeth, shook their long lances towards the sky, where the moon was breaking from the banked clouds, and the looming balloon hung black above the forest, drifting slowly westward.
And now Von Steyr had a weapon in his hands--not a carbine, but a long cha.s.sepot-rifle, a relic of the despoiled franc-tireur, dangling from the oak-tree.
Some one shouted, ”It's loaded with explosive bullets!”
”Then drop it!” roared Rickerl. ”For shame!”
The crash of the rifle drowned his voice.
The balloon's shadowy bulk above the forest was belted by a blue line of light; the globe contracted, a yellow glare broke out in the sky. Then far away a light report startled the sudden stillness; a dark spot, suspended in mid-air, began to fall, swiftly, more swiftly, dropping through the night between sky and earth.
”You d.a.m.ned coward!” stammered Rickerl, pointing a shaking hand at Von Steyr.
”G.o.d keep you when our sabres meet!” said Von Steyr, between his teeth.
Rickerl burst into an angry laugh.
”Where is your prisoner?” he cried.
Von Steyr stared around him, right and left--Jack was gone.
”Let others prefer charges,” said Rickerl, contemptuously--”if you escape my sabre in the morning.”
”Let them,” said Von Steyr, quietly, but his face worked convulsively.
”Second platoon dismount to search for escaped prisoner!” he cried. ”Open order! Forward!”
XIX
RICKERL'S SABRE
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