ast from him
and darted to the doorway. He found himself facing Herbert, who held
a boar-spear, and the king, who had a double-barreled hunting-gun.
He raised his left hand, Herbert said--no doubt he still asked a
hearing--but the king leveled his weapon. With a spring Rupert gained
the shelter of the door, the bullet sped by him, and buried itself
in the wall of the room. Then Herbert was at him with the boar-spear.
Explanations must wait now: it was life or death; without hesitation
Rupert fired at Herbert, bringing him to the ground with a mortal wound.
The king's gun was at his shoulder again.

"You damned fool!" roared Rupert, "if you must have it, take it," and
gun and revolver rang out at the same moment. But Rupert--never did his
nerve fail him--hit, the king missed; Herbert saw the count stand for
an instant with his smoking barrel in his hand, looking at the king,
who lay on the ground. Then Rupert walked towards the door. I wish I
had seen his face then! Did he frown or smile? Was triumph or chagrin
uppermost? Remorse? Not he!

He reached the door and passed through. That was the last Herbert saw of
him; but the fourth actor in the drama, the wordless player whose part
had been so momentous, took the stage. Limping along, now whining in
sharp agony, now growling in fierce anger, with blood flowing but hair
bristling, the hound Boris dragged himself across the room, through the
door, after Rupert of Hentzau. Herbert listened, raising his head from
the ground. There was a growl, an oath, the sound of the scuffle. Rupert
must have turned in time to receive the dog's spring. The beast, maimed
and crippled by his shattered shoulder, did not reach his enemy's face,
but his teeth tore away the bit of cloth that we had found held in the
vise of his jaws. Then came another shot, a laugh, retreating steps,
and a door slammed. With that last sound Herbert woke to the fact of the
count's escape; with weary efforts he dragged himself into the passage.
The idea that he could go on if he got a drink of brandy turned him in
the direction of the cellar. But his strength failed, and he sank down
where we found him, not knowing whether the king were dead or still
alive, and unable even to make his way back to the room where his master
lay stretched on the ground.

I had listened to the story, bound as though by a spell. Halfway
through, James's hand had crept to my arm and rested there; when Herbert
finished I heard the litt