I wish I had seen his face
then! Did he frown or smile? Was triumph or chagrin uppermost?
Remorse? Not he!
He reached the door and passed through. That was the last Herbert
saw of him; but the fourth actor in the drama, the wordless
player whose part had been so momentous, took the stage. Limping
along, now whining in sharp agony, now growling in fierce anger,
with blood flowing but hair bristling, the hound Boris dragged
himself across the room, through the door, after Rupert of
Hentzau. Herbert listened, raising his head from the ground.
There was a growl, an oath, the sound of the scuffle. Rupert must
have turned in time to receive the dog's spring. The beast,
maimed and crippled by his shattered shoulder, did not reach his
enemy's face, but his teeth tore away the bit of cloth that we
had found held in the vise of his jaws. Then came another shot, a
laugh, retreating steps, and a door slammed. With that last sound
Herbert woke to the fact of the count's escape; with weary
efforts he dragged himself into the passage. The idea that he
could go on if he got a drink of brandy turned him in the
direction of the cellar. But his strength failed, and he sank
down where we found him, not knowing whether the king were dead
or still alive, and unable even to make his way back to the room
where his master lay stretched on the ground.
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