At the shot Zmai cried aloud in his curiously small voice and clapped his
hands to his head.
"Stop; I want the letter!" shouted Oscar in German. The man turned
slowly, as though dazed, and, with a hand still clutching his head,
half-stumbled and half-ran toward the sheds, with Oscar at his heels.
Claiborne called to the negro stable-men to quiet the dogs, snatched a
lantern, and ran away through the pergola to the end of the garden and
thence into the pasture beyond. Meanwhile Oscar, thinking Zmai badly
hurt, did not fire again, but flung himself upon the fellow's broad
shoulders and down they crashed against the door of the nearest pen. Zmai
swerved and shook himself free while he fiercely cursed his foe. Oscar's
hands slipped on the fellow's hot blood that ran from a long crease in
the side of his head.
As they fell the pen door snapped free, and out into the starry pasture
thronged the frightened sheep.
"The letter--give me the letter!" commanded Oscar, his face close to the
Servian's. He did not know how badly the man was injured, but he was
anxious to complete his business and be off.
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