The young man guessed himself in a trap, though unable to understand its nature. They were gagging Felix--he saw that--they could not understand that he, Streloff, was on their side--they might think him a rescue party, since they probably knew him to be in Vronsky's service. He struggled like a panther in the hold of his captor, writhed himself free, and hurled himself, knife in hand, upon Vanston. There could be no doubt of his murderous intent, and the man who covered him with his revolver fired without hesitation. The sound died away upon the quiet air, a light smoke drifted between the horrified eyes of Felix and the black trunks of the surrounding trees. Streloff dropped forwards, a strangled word upon his lips, a grin of rage upon his features. His blade had actually grazed young Vanston's ribs. "Please God," said the policeman who had shot Streloff to Felix, "you'll never be nearer death than that again--until your time comes." "Are there any more of them?" asked one of his colleagues, moving cautiously along the edge of the wood. "I saw only him," replied a subordinate. They raised the young fellow's body. He was quite dead. "But he never could have started out alone to grapple with Mr. Vanston and Max," thoughtfully said the policeman. He gave an order, suddenly and sharp. "Search the wood thoroughly on both sides." The men went off, searching up and down. But the two Kirgiz had got a couple of minutes' start, and they made the most of it. Like streaks of shadow they fled, down by-ways they knew well, and never paused until they stood before the yourtar, and roused the sleeping wife and children. By morning all was gone. There was no trace of yesterday's camp, except the brown circle of downtrodden grass where the tent had stood. The two men, the woman and the children, were tramping harmlessly along the highroad southward, towards the yourtar whither Cravatz had withdrawn. It was past midnight when, with a rush and a crash of breaking wood, the horses galloped madly into the stableyard at Savlinsky, having broken one wheel off the tarantasse against the gate-post. Vronsky, who was restless and feverish, heard the uproar, and sent his servant, who slept in his room, to find out what had happened. The man returned, chalk-white, and shaking as with ague. The carriage had returned, but it contained neither Felix nor Max. Its only occupant was--was the corpse of Streloff, the young clerk, murdered by a bullet wound in the temple. The single shot fired by the policeman--the shot that killed Streloff--did not rouse the sleeping village. There was nobody to see the party of kidnappers slip in among the trees with their bound victims, nor to watch them unloose their bonds as soon as darkness covered them.