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.  Still the sheep came huddling through the broken door, across the prostrate men, and scampered away into the open.  Captain Claiborne, running toward the fold with his lantern and not looking for obstacles, stumbled over their bewildered advance guard and plunged headlong into the gray fleeces.  Meanwhile into the pockets of his prostrate foe went Oscar’s hands with no result.  Then he remembered the man’s gesture in pulling the hat close upon his ears, and off came the hat and with it a blood-stained envelope.  The last sheep in the pen trooped out and galloped toward its comrades.

Oscar, making off with the letter, plunged into the rear guard of the sheep, fell, stumbled to his feet, and confronted Captain Claiborne as that gentleman, in soiled evening dress, fumbled for his lantern and swore in language unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.

“Damn the sheep!” roared Claiborne.

“It is sheep—­yes?” and Oscar started to bolt.

“Halt!”

The authority of the tone rang familiarly in Oscar’s ears.  He had, after considerable tribulation, learned to stop short when an officer spoke to him, and the gentleman of the sheepfold stood straight in the starlight and spoke like an officer.

“What in the devil are you doing here, and who fired that shot?”

Oscar saluted and summoned his best English.

“It was an accident, sir.”

“Why are you running and why did you fire?  Understand you are a trespasser here, and I am going to turn you over to the constable.”

“There was a sheep-stealer—­yes?  He is yonder by the pens—­and we had some little fighting; but he is not dead—­no?”

At that moment Claiborne’s eyes caught sight of a burly figure rising and threshing about by the broken pen door.