"In which pocket is the business carried? A letter undoubtedly. They do
not trust swine to carry words--Ah!"
Oscar dropped below the wall as Zmai struck at him; when he looked up a
moment later the Servian was running back over the meadow toward the
sheepfold. Oscar, angry at the ease with which the Servian had evaded
him, leaped the wall and set off after the big fellow. He was quite sure
that the man bore a written message, and equally sure that it must be of
importance to his employer. He clutched his revolver tight, brought up
his elbows for greater ease in running, and sped after Zmai, now a blur
on the starlighted sheep pasture.
The slope was gradual and a pretty feature of the landscape by day; but
it afforded a toilsome path for runners. Zmai already realized that he
had blundered in not forcing the wall; he was running uphill, with a
group of sheds, another wall, and a still steeper and rougher field
beyond. His bulk told against him; and behind him he heard the quick
thump of Oscar's feet on the turf. The starlight grew dimmer through
tracts of white scud; the surface of the pasture was rougher to the feet
than it appeared to the eye.
Pages:
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275