A flash, the report of a pistol, a death groan interrupted the police master’s words.  The three horsemen bounded forward into the night.  Forward at breakneck speed, but for the sand, that dreadful sand.  This is the Rehberg, they know it by the sand in which the horses sink, from which they extricate themselves only to sink again.  Yet what matters it if they do make rather slow progress?  They will surely reach Spandow before daybreak, and Colonel von Burgsdorf will be cheated out of his precious prisoners.

What is that?  What strange sound does the night wind bear to the three riders?  Simultaneously all three turn in their saddles and listen.

They hear it quite plainly.  It is the noise made by trotting horses.  It comes on—­it comes nearer.

“Wallenrodt, Waldow!  We are pursued!”

“Yes, count, but we have the Rehberg almost behind us, and they must go through it.  We have a good start.  They will not overtake us.”

“Forward, my friends, forward!”

They put spurs to their horses, they press their knees into their flanks, and the animals struggle faster through the sand.  In spite of every hindrance they have now reached firmer ground and bound bravely forward.  But the noise behind them has not ceased, not even become more remote.  They must have good steeds, those pursuers, for they seem to come nearer and nearer.

“Friends, better die than fall into the hands of the enemy!” shouts the count.  “I tell you the very moment Burgsdorf touches me I shall shoot myself.  Greet my friends for me.  Bid them farewell forever!”

“You will not shoot yourself, count, for the enemy will not overtake us.  Forward!  Put spur to your horses.  Heigh!  Huzza!  Forward!”

They rush through the darkness!

Clouds dark and threatening course swiftly through the sky, horsemen dark and threatening course swiftly over the earth.

“Waldow! they come nearer!  But we have still the start of them!”

“Only see, count!  That dark mass there against the sky.  That is our goal.  Just one quarter of an hour and we shall be safe in Spandow.”

“One quarter of an hour!  An eternity!  Heigh!  Huzza!  On! on!”

“Halt!” is heard behind them.  “Halt! in the name of the Elector, in the name of the law!  Halt! halt!”

“That is Burgsdorf’s voice!” cries Count Schwarzenberg, and spurs his horse with such violence that it rears and then shoots forward, swift as an arrow from a bow.  But the pursuers, too, dash forward, as if borne upon the wings of the wind, and the distance between them constantly grows less.  Already they hear the horses pant; ever clearer, ever more distinct become the passionate outcries of Colonel Burgsdorf.

He swears, he threatens, he rages!  He orders the fugitives to halt, and swears to shoot them if they do not.

What care they for threats or orders?  Forward! forward!  Behind them sounds a shot—­a second, then a third!  The balls whistle past their ears, and they laugh aloud, to prove to the enemy that they are still alive.