His assailant, no longer supported, rolled to the ground with Oscar on
top of him, and the freed horse galloped away toward the stable.
A rough and tumble fight now followed. Oscar's lithe, vigorous body
writhed in the grasp of his antagonist, now free, now clasped by giant
arms. They saw each other's faces plainly in the clear moonlight, and at
breathless pauses in the struggle their eyes maintained the state of war.
At one instant, when both men lay with arms interlocked, half-lying on
their thighs, Oscar hissed in the giant's ear:
"You are a Servian: it is an ugly race."
And the Servian cursed him in a fierce growl.
"We expected you; you are a bad hand with the knife," grunted Oscar, and
feeling the bellows-like chest beside him expand, as though in
preparation for a renewal of the fight, he suddenly wrenched himself free
of the Servian's grasp, leaped away a dozen paces to the shelter of a
great pine, and turned, revolver in hand.
"Throw up your hands," he yelled.
The Servian fired without pausing for aim, the shot ringing out sharply
through the wood. Then Oscar discharged his revolver three times in quick
succession, and while the discharges were still keen on the air he drew
quickly back to a clump of underbrush, and crept away a dozen yards to
watch events.
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