For a moment the countess--“the cleverest, keenest, most heartless woman spy in Russia”--sat crouching in the bottom of the sleigh, reeling, appalled. The captain’s cry, “Stop, or we fire!” was to her the beginning of the death climax, and this nearness of the end revealed to her, as though by a flash of lightning, the meaning of her all-day’s strange excitement and of her present wild emotion--and the revelation froze her soul with horror. This man that she had led to this lonely death, she loved him! She had, in the pursuit of her profession, lured many a man to acts or confidences that had sent him to prison, to frozen exile on far Siberian plains, even to death by bullet or hangman’s noose. For more than one of these victims she had felt a liking--which, however, had never stayed her purpose; and when the man was gone, and his price was in her hand, she had never wished her act undone. Her original liking for Drexel she had lightly classified as one with these others--and only this climacteric moment revealed the truth. She loved him--she had set this trap for him--and now she was powerless to save him! She sprang up and began wildly to belabour the horse. The poor beast, under this terrific beating, did manage to make a little spurt and for a moment they held their own. “You are under arrest! Stop--or we fire!” bellowed the captain. “Do you think you could shoot them?” gasped the countess over her shoulder. “I have only the seven cartridges in my pistol. And I’m a poor shot.” “Try! Try!” “If I fire, all four of them will fire. They have carbines. If they begin to shoot it may mean that you’ll be killed. It’s better for you to be arrested.” “Don’t think of me!” she cried frantically. “I’d rather be killed. Shoot! Shoot!” “Wait till they are nearer. My pistol will have a better chance.” The next moment there was a spurt of fire. He looked behind him to see if the countess had been hit, and for the first time saw that she was on her feet striking the horse with all her strength. “Sit down!” he cried, and he seized the back of her coat and dragged her into the bottom of the sleigh beside him. “Then shoot!” she gasped. “If I could only kill the captain I wouldn’t mind arrest so much.” “You must kill them all! All!” “Why?” “Because they----” She broke off suddenly. She dared not tell him why. To tell him that they meant to kill him, would be to reveal to him that they were but the tools working out her design. “You must kill them all! All!” she repeated frantically. Another flash--another whizzing bullet. “Here goes, then. For the captain first.” His Browning flamed out. The captain and the other three galloped on. The Browning cracked again--and a third time. All four riders still kept their seats. “Oh, oh!” moaned the countess. “Only four bullets left! You _can’t_ miss again. You must get a man with every bullet!” “Stop!” roared the captain. “We don’t want to shoot. We don’t want to hurt the woman!”