The trio stood upon the threshold of the oratory, immovable, irresolute, silent, gazing at the cardinal, who in turn kept his eyes fixed upon them like a prisoner waiting for the verdict of life or death. "No terms with a Jesuit," muttered Zabern under his breath. "Nikita, you are the best shot. Draw your pistol, and shoot, not the cardinal, but the dove." As Zabern spoke he moved slightly to one side, in order to screen the movements of his henchman. Directly afterwards a report rang out, startlingly loud in that small chamber. It was accompanied by a sharp cry of anguish from the cardinal, and by a swift forward rush on the part of his foes, each eager to pounce upon the fallen bird. But, by a strange mischance, Nikita, who was considered to be second only to Katina herself in the handling of the pistol, had somehow failed to hit a conspicuous object seventeen feet away. The bullet had penetrated the wrist of the cardinal, whose hand had involuntarily relaxed its hold, with the result that the startled dove was now flying forth through the open casement. With the air of one mad, Zabern pulled Nikita towards the window, and, hurling Ravenna aside, he thrust his own pistol into the trooper's hand. "Shoot, Nikita, shoot in God's name," he cried, pointing to the dove, whose white form was clearly defined against the dark blue sky. "The fate of all Czernova rests on your aim." The bird, as if doubtful what direction to take, was moving slowly round in a series of spirals and rising higher and higher each moment. Nikita pointed his weapon, raising it gradually with the ascent of the dove, till, deeming himself certain of his aim, he drew the trigger. A second shot rang out. Both men looked, expecting the instant fall of the dove, but the winged messenger remained unhurt, and apparently having chosen its route, flew off in a straight line, and immediately disappeared over the tree-tops. "By heaven, you've missed again!" cried Zabern, his dismay being lost for the moment in wonder that Nikita's hand should have so strangely lost its cunning. "God's curse is on me to-night," said Nikita, flinging the pistol from him. "Who," he added, with a touch of Slavonic superstition, "who can shoot a dove, symbol of the Holy Ghost?" "Symbol of the holy devil!" cried Zabern. "Where's the cardinal?" In his eagerness to mark the effect of Nikita's second shot Gabor had likewise pressed forward to the casement, forgetful of Ravenna, who, taking advantage of this negligence, picked himself up from the corner where Zabern had flung him, and ran from the oratory into the library. The wondering police next day traced his course over the carpet by the blood-drops that fell from his shattered wrist. But in a moment more the avenging Zabern was after him, his sabre gleaming in his hand.