Zmai put his hand on the wall and prepared to vault.

“A moment only, comrade.  You seem to be in a hurry; it must be a business that brings you from the mountains—­yes?”

“I have no time for you,” snarled the Servian.  “Be gone!” and he shook himself impatiently and again put his hand on the wall.

“One should not be in too much haste, comrade;” and Oscar thrust Zmai back with his finger-tips.

The man yielded and ran a few steps out of the clump of trees and sought to escape there.  It was clear to Oscar that Zmai was not anxious to penetrate closer to the Claiborne house, whose garden extended quite near.  He met Zmai promptly and again thrust him back.

“It is a message—­yes?” asked Oscar.

“It is my affair,” blurted the big fellow.  “I mean no harm to you.”

“It was you that tried the knife on my body.  It is much quieter than shooting.  You have the knife—­yes?”

The little soldier whipped out his revolver.

“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.  A hound in the Claiborne stable-yard bayed suddenly and the sound echoed from the surrounding houses and drifted off toward the sheepfold.  Then a noble music rose from the kennels.

Captain Claiborne, waiting for his sister on the veranda, looked toward the stables, listening.

Zmai approached the sheep-sheds rapidly, with still a hundred yards to traverse beyond them before he should reach the pasture wall.  His rage at thus being driven by a small man for whom he had great contempt did not help his wind or stimulate the flight of his heavy legs, and he saw now that he would lessen the narrowing margin between himself and his pursuer if he swerved to the right to clear the sheds.  He suddenly slackened his pace, and with a vicious tug settled his wool hat more firmly upon his small skull.  He went now at a dog trot and Oscar was closing upon him rapidly; then, quite near the sheds, Zmai wheeled about and charged his pursuer headlong.  At the moment he turned, Oscar’s revolver bit keenly into the night.  Captain Claiborne, looking toward the slope, saw the flash before the hounds at the stables answered the report.