He had made a mess
of his errands and nearly lost his life besides. The bullet from Oscar's
revolver had cut a neat furrow in his scalp, which was growing sore and
stiff as it ceased bleeding. He would undoubtedly be dealt with harshly
by Chauvenet and Durand, but he knew that the sooner he reported his
calamities the better; so he stumbled toward Lamar, pausing at times to
clasp his small head in his great hands. When he passed the wild tangle
that hid Armitage's bungalow he paused and cursed the two occupants in
his own dialect with a fierce vile tongue. It was near midnight when he
reached the tavern and climbed the rickety stairway to the room where the
two men waited.
Chauvenet opened the door at his approach, and they cried aloud as the
great figure appeared before them and the lamplight fell upon his dark
blood-smeared face.
"The letters!" snapped Chauvenet.
"Is the message safe?" demanded Durand.
"Lost; lost; they are lost! I lost my way and he nearly killed me,--the
little soldier,--as I crossed a strange field."
When they had jerked the truth from Zmai, Chauvenet flung open the door
and bawled through the house for the innkeeper.
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