“Shoot!” gasped the countess to Drexel. “And for God’s sake shoot straight!” Drexel in silence tried to take careful aim over the back of the sleigh. But a galloping horseman at forty yards is not an easy moonlight pistol target for a novice in a swaying sleigh. After the crack of the pistol the captain rode on, but one of the men slowly fell behind. “That’s better!” breathed the countess. “You’ve wounded a horse. Once more!” At the next shot the captain’s bridle arm fell to his side. The sixth went wide. “Oh, oh!” groaned the countess. “They’re not shooting any better,” commented Drexel between his teeth. She could not explain that their shots were going wild because they were under orders not to risk injuring her. “Is the next the only cartridge? Feel in your pockets--perhaps you have some more!” she implored. “This is the last,” said he. He took aim at the captain--fired--threw the empty Browning away with a cry of despair. For the captain still sat his saddle. “All is over,” he said grimly. “No, no!” she cried. “They must not take you! They must not!” “I’m willing they should not.” “See--we’re in the forest,” she said desperately. “We’re running within two or three paces of the trees. See how thick they are. The men could never follow you on horseback in there. If you jump from the sleigh and make a dash----” “I shall not desert you, countess,” he interrupted. “You must--you must! They’ll take me just the same whether you go or remain. So why should not you at least escape?” Yes, his thought told him in a flash, it would be just the same with the countess. That being the case he should think of Sonya--think of his safety, which was Sonya’s safety. “I’ll pretend to help them,” she went on breathlessly. “I’ll try to hold you; we’ll pretend to have a struggle--that’ll make them more lenient with me.” This bit of play-acting was an inspired device for clearing herself with Prince Berloff. “And if you get away, don’t go near a railway station; the prince will have men waiting for you at them all. Now!” She seized him and turned backward toward the pursuers. “Hurry!--Hurry!” she cried to them. “I have him!” And to Drexel she whispered: “Now struggle to break away from me. Be rough--it will be better for me if I have some marks to show.” They struggled--squirmed and swayed about in the rocking little vehicle--the countess encouraged by the pursuers; and in the struggle she deftly removed from his pocket the documents that were to excuse his death. “Now jump!” she whispered. He leaped forth. Then, all within the space of an instant, he went rolling in the snow--there were four cracks--fine, dry snow-spray leaped up about him--and at the instant’s end he was on his feet and dashing into the forest.