He recovered the whip, but there was no holding the horses now. The buggy clattered down the stony street, dispersing pigs and fowls and goats as it came. Horrified mothers caught up their children from before the very feet of the horses, and village elders, leaning against their houses for a talk, drew back out of the road with an injured air as the wheels crashed close by their toes. By some miracle, as it seemed, the horses kept their feet, and the buggy was not overturned, and when the foot of the hill was in sight, Cyril drew a deep breath, and said to Helene-- “It’s no use trying to pull up here. I’m going to rush them. Crouch. Get under the apron if you can.” Glancing ahead, Helene saw that the Dardanians were straining every nerve to reach the road and intercept them as soon as they were upon the level. She slipped down under the apron as far as she could, and Cyril urged the horses on. Only two men leaped into the road in time to stand and meet them, and though both shouted that they would fire, they were too much shaken by their run to take accurate aim. One sprang aside, and struck a futile blow at Cyril with the butt-end of his gun; the other was knocked down, and the horses, terrified by the discharge of his rifle as he fell, and by the shouts which arose from behind them, dashed on faster than ever. Two or three bullets struck the hood of the buggy harmlessly. “Not much farther now, Lenchen,” said Cyril. “Get back to your seat, at once, and if I say ‘Jump!’ do it immediately, do you hear?” Why should she jump? What could he see that made him think such a thing might be necessary? Helene cowered on the seat beside him with parted lips and staring eyes. Suddenly she saw what it was. A Dardanian sprang from some bushes on the right of the road, and standing in front of the horses, waved his arms and shouted. They swerved aside, but Cyril brought them round again, and as the man tried to leap up on the step of the carriage as it passed him, struck at him with the whip. He fell back, but at the same moment a fusilade broke out from the bushes, and terrified the horses beyond control. The high pole which marked the frontier, bearing on this side the emblems of Dardania, on the other those of Pannonia, was only a little way in front, and just beyond it were the gendarmes and their officer, drawn up in line, with their rifles ready. Cyril made a last effort to direct the horses into the lane kept open for them between the two ranks of men, but they dashed violently to the left, where the ground sank into a kind of wooden glen. “Jump, Lenchen, jump!” cried Cyril, but Helene was too much frightened to obey. She was conscious of a violent jolt, a crackling of branches, the sensation of falling. There were shouts and cries, then a great silence. CHAPTER XXIII. THE PRICE TO BE PAID.