d spoken again, and true.

Maurice shut his teeth, drew his revolver, cocked it and applied the
spurs. With a bound he shot past von Mitter, who was cursing deeply and
trying to reload. Maurice did not propose to waste powder on the driver,
but was determined to bring down one of the carriage horses, which
were marvelous brutes for speed. Scharfenstein kept popping away at the
driver, but without apparent result. Finally Maurice secured the desired
range. He raised the revolver, rested the barrel between the left thumb
and forefinger and pressed the trigger. The nearest carriage horse
lurched to his knees, a bullet in his brain, dragging his mate with him.
The race had come to an end.

At once the two horsemen in front separated; one continued toward the
great forest, while the other took to the hills. Scharfenstein started
in pursuit of the latter. As for the carriage, it came to an abrupt
stand. The driver made a flying leap toward the lake, but stumbled and
fell, and before he could regain his feet Maurice was off his horse and
on his quarry. He caught the fellow by the throat and pressed him to the
earth, kneeling on his chest.

"Hold him!" cried von Mitter, coming up with a limp, "hold him till I
knock in his head, damn him!"

"No, no!" said Maurice, "you can't get information out of a dead man."

"It's all up with me," groaned the Lieutenant. "I'll ask for my
discharge. I could hit nothing, my hand trembled. I was afraid of
shooting into the carriage."

Maurice turned his attention to the man beneath him. "Now, you devil,"
he cried, "a clean breast of it, or off the board you go. O!" suddenly
peering down. "By the Lord, so it is you--you--you!" savagely bumping
the fellow's head against the earth. "Spy!"

"You are killing me!"

"Small matter. Who is this fellow?" asked Maurice.

"Johann Kopf, a spy, a police rat, and God knows what else," answered
von Mitter, limping toward the carriage. "Curse the leg!" He forced
the door and peered inside. "Fainted! I thought as much." He lifted the
inanimate bundle which lay huddled in between the seats and carried it
to the side of the road, where he tenderly laid it. He rubbed the girl's
wrists, unmindful of the blood which fell from his face and left dark
stains on her dress. "Thank God," heartily, "that her Royal Highness was
suffering from a headache. She would have died from fright."

Maurice felt the straining cords in the prisoner's neck grow limp. The
rasca