The Puppet Crown [135]
snapped at the white, which veered. The stroke which would have split Maurice's skull in twain, fell on the rear of the saddle, and the blade was so firmly imbedded in the wooden molding that Beauvais could not withdraw it at once. Blinded by pain as he was, and fainting, yet Maurice saw his chance. He thrust with all his remaining strength at the brown throat so near him. And the blade went true. The other's body stiffened, his head flew back, his eyes started; he clutched wildly at the steel, but his hands had not the power to reach it. A bloody foam gushed between his lips; his mouth opened; he swayed, and finally tumbled into the road--dead.
As Maurice gazed down at him, between the dead eyes and his own there passed a vision of a dark-skinned girl, who, if still living, dwelt in a lonely convent, thousands of miles away.
Maurice was sensible of but little pain; a pleasant numbness began to steal over him. His sleeve was soaked, his left hand was red, and the blood dripped from his fingers and made round black spots in the dust of the road. A circle of this blackness was widening about the head of the fallen man. Maurice watched it, fascinated. . . He was dead, and the fact that he was a prince did not matter.
It seemed to Maurice that his own body was transforming into lead, and he vaguely wondered how the horse could bear up such a weight. He was sleepy, too. Dimly it came to him that he also must be dying. . . . No; he would not die there, beside this man. He still gripped his saber. Indeed, his hand was as if soldered to the wire and leather windings on the hilt. Mollendorf had said that Beauvais was invincible. . . . Beauvais was dead. Was he, too, dying? . . . No; he would not die there. The Mecklenberg started forward at a walk; a spur had touched him.
"No!" Maurice cried, throwing off the drowsiness. "My God, I will not die here! . . . Go, boy!" The Mecklenberg set off, loping easily.
His recent enemy, the great white horse, stood motionless in the center of the road, and followed him with large, inquiring eyes. He turned and looked at the silent huddled mass in the dust at his feet, and whinneyed. But he did not move; a foot still remained in the stirrup.
Soon Maurice remembered an episode of his school days, when, in the spirit of precocious research, he had applied carbolic acid to his arm. It occurred to him that he was now being bathed in that burning fluid. He was recovering from the shock. With returning sense came the increase of pain, pain so tormenting and exquisite that sobs rose in his throat and choked him. Perspiration matted his hair; every breath he took was a knife thrust, and the rise and fall of the horse, gentle as it was, caused the earth to reel and careen heavenward.
Bleiberg; he was to reach Bleiberg. He repeated this thought over and over. Bleiberg, to warn her. Why should he go to Bleiberg to warn her? What was he doing here, he who loved life so well? What had led him into this? . . . There had been a battle, but neither army had been cognizant of it. He endeavored to move his injured arm, and found it bereft of locomotion. The tendons had been cut. And he could not loosen his grip on the saber which he held in his right hand. The bridle rein swung from side to side.
Rivulets of fire began to run up and down his side; the cords in his neck were stiffening. Still the blood went drip, drip, drip, into the dust. Would he reach Bleiberg, or would he die on the way? God! for a drink of water, cold water. He set his teeth in his lips to neutralize the pain in his arm and shoulder. His lips were numb, and the pressure of his teeth was as nothing. From one moment to the next he expected to drop from the saddle, but somehow he hung on; the spark of life was tenacious. The saber dangled on one side, the scabbard on the other. The blood, drying in places, drew the skin as tight as a drumhead.
On, on, on; up long inclines, down the steeps; he lost all track of time, and the darkness thickened and the stars stood
As Maurice gazed down at him, between the dead eyes and his own there passed a vision of a dark-skinned girl, who, if still living, dwelt in a lonely convent, thousands of miles away.
Maurice was sensible of but little pain; a pleasant numbness began to steal over him. His sleeve was soaked, his left hand was red, and the blood dripped from his fingers and made round black spots in the dust of the road. A circle of this blackness was widening about the head of the fallen man. Maurice watched it, fascinated. . . He was dead, and the fact that he was a prince did not matter.
It seemed to Maurice that his own body was transforming into lead, and he vaguely wondered how the horse could bear up such a weight. He was sleepy, too. Dimly it came to him that he also must be dying. . . . No; he would not die there, beside this man. He still gripped his saber. Indeed, his hand was as if soldered to the wire and leather windings on the hilt. Mollendorf had said that Beauvais was invincible. . . . Beauvais was dead. Was he, too, dying? . . . No; he would not die there. The Mecklenberg started forward at a walk; a spur had touched him.
"No!" Maurice cried, throwing off the drowsiness. "My God, I will not die here! . . . Go, boy!" The Mecklenberg set off, loping easily.
His recent enemy, the great white horse, stood motionless in the center of the road, and followed him with large, inquiring eyes. He turned and looked at the silent huddled mass in the dust at his feet, and whinneyed. But he did not move; a foot still remained in the stirrup.
Soon Maurice remembered an episode of his school days, when, in the spirit of precocious research, he had applied carbolic acid to his arm. It occurred to him that he was now being bathed in that burning fluid. He was recovering from the shock. With returning sense came the increase of pain, pain so tormenting and exquisite that sobs rose in his throat and choked him. Perspiration matted his hair; every breath he took was a knife thrust, and the rise and fall of the horse, gentle as it was, caused the earth to reel and careen heavenward.
Bleiberg; he was to reach Bleiberg. He repeated this thought over and over. Bleiberg, to warn her. Why should he go to Bleiberg to warn her? What was he doing here, he who loved life so well? What had led him into this? . . . There had been a battle, but neither army had been cognizant of it. He endeavored to move his injured arm, and found it bereft of locomotion. The tendons had been cut. And he could not loosen his grip on the saber which he held in his right hand. The bridle rein swung from side to side.
Rivulets of fire began to run up and down his side; the cords in his neck were stiffening. Still the blood went drip, drip, drip, into the dust. Would he reach Bleiberg, or would he die on the way? God! for a drink of water, cold water. He set his teeth in his lips to neutralize the pain in his arm and shoulder. His lips were numb, and the pressure of his teeth was as nothing. From one moment to the next he expected to drop from the saddle, but somehow he hung on; the spark of life was tenacious. The saber dangled on one side, the scabbard on the other. The blood, drying in places, drew the skin as tight as a drumhead.
On, on, on; up long inclines, down the steeps; he lost all track of time, and the darkness thickened and the stars stood