“It is in the blood; he is like a king.”

But they could not hear the words that John Armitage kept saying over and over again as he crossed the field: 

“He bade me do something for Austria—­for Austria!”

“He is brave, but he is a great fool.  When he turns his horse we will fire on him,” said Zmai.

Their eyes were upon Armitage; and in their intentness they failed to note the increasing pace of Oscar’s horse, which was spurting slowly ahead.  When they saw that he would first make the sweep which they assumed to be the contemplated strategy of the charging party, they leveled their arms at him, believing that he must soon check his horse.  But on he rode, bending forward a little, his rifle held across the saddle in front of him.

“Take him first,” cried Chauvenet.  “Then be ready for Armitage!”

Oscar was now turning his horse, but toward them and across Armitage’s path, with the deliberate purpose of taking the first fire.  Before him rose the cedars that concealed the line of wall; and he saw the blue barrels of the waiting rifles.  With a great spurt of speed he cut in ahead of Armitage swiftly and neatly; then on, without a break or a pause—­not heeding Armitage’s cries—­on and still on, till twenty, then ten feet lay between him and the wall, at a place where the cedar barrier was thinnest.  Then, as his horse crouched and rose, three rifles cracked as one.  With a great crash the horse struck the wall and tumbled, rearing and plunging, through the tough cedar boughs.  An instant later, near the same spot, Armitage, with better luck clearing the wall, was borne on through the confused line.  When he flung himself down and ran back Claiborne had not yet appeared.

Oscar had crashed through at a point held by Durand, who was struck down by the horse’s forefeet.  He lay howling with pain, with the hind quarters of the prostrate beast across his legs.  Armitage, running back toward the wall, kicked the revolver from his hand and left him.  Zmai had started to run as Oscar gained the wall and Chauvenet’s curses did not halt the Servian when he found Oscar at his heels.

Chauvenet stood impassively by the wall, his revolver raised and covering Armitage, who walked slowly and doggedly toward him.  The pallor in Armitage’s face gave him an unearthly look; he appeared to be trying to force himself to a pace of which his wavering limbs were incapable.  At the moment that Claiborne sprang upon the wall behind Chauvenet Armitage swerved and stumbled, then swayed from side to side like a drunken man.  His left arm swung limp at his side, and his revolver remained undrawn in his belt.  His gray felt hat was twitched to one side of his head, adding a grotesque touch to the impression of drunkenness, and he was talking aloud: 

“Shoot me, Mr. Chauvenet.  Go on and shoot me!  I am John Armitage, and I live in Montana, where real people are.  Go on and shoot!  Winkelried’s in jail and the jig’s up and the Empire and the silly King are safe.  Go on and shoot, I tell you!”