At that very moment I heard a rush of feet, and a voice I
knew--Sapt's--cry: "God! it's the duke--dead!" Then I knew that the King
needed me no more, and throwing down my revolver, I sprang out on the
bridge. There was a cry of wild wonder, "The King!" and then I, like
Rupert of Hentzau, sword in hand, vaulted over the parapet, intent on
finishing my quarrel with him where I saw his curly head fifteen yards
off in the water of the moat.
He swam swiftly and easily. I was weary and half crippled with my
wounded arm. I could not gain on him. For a time I made no sound, but as
we rounded the corner of the old keep I cried:
"Stop, Rupert, stop!"
I saw him look over his shoulder, but he swam on. He was under the bank
now, searching, as I guessed, for a spot that he could climb. I knew
there to be none--but there was my rope, which would still be hanging
where I had left it. He would come to where it was before I could.
Perhaps he would miss it--perhaps he would find it; and if he drew it up
after him, he would get a good start of me. I put forth all my remaining
strength and pressed on. At last I began to gain on him; for he,
occupied with his search, unconsciously slackened his pace.
Ah, he had found it! A low shout of triumph came from him. He laid
hold of it and began to haul himself up.
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