well as to revenge the hurt of my staunch friend, who had given himself to save me.
Snatching the carbine from my saddle, I knelt down, and, firing over the prone horse, I aimed at the foremost rider, who fell in a huddled mass on to his horse's shoulder and then dropped to the ground.
I was ramming home another cartridge as the other two halted and took aim. I crouched under shelter of the horse, and felt him quiver and kick feebly as one of the bullets plugged into him; and then the men came dashing forward again.
But not for many strides, for my second shot sent the officer toppling out of his saddle heavily to the rough road. I loaded again instantly, for the sight of Zoiloff's death-white face and the thought of his wound maddened me so that I could have killed a dozen men in cold blood to avenge him.
The remaining trooper had little stomach for any further fight, however, and he reined up and stood irresolute.
"Go back, if you care for your life," I called to him. "We are on Servian ground, and you have no right to pursue me." He was afraid for his own skin to come on, and yet afraid for duty's sake to turn back, and I saw him open his carbine at the breech to reload.
I did not give him time to do that, however, before I fired. I missed the man, but struck his weapon, shattering it in his hand. This was much more convincing than any words, and, recognising his unarmed helplessness, he wheeled his horse round and rode off back down the hill.
I had won; but what a price had the victory cost!
I bent over my wounded friend, my heart sick with my grief.
