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Hope, Anthony, 1863-1933

"The Prisoner of Zenda"

He seemed almost dazed at the
fierceness of my attack; otherwise I think he must have killed me. I
sank on my knee panting, expecting him to ride at me. And so he would
have done, and then and there, I doubt not, one or both of us would have
died; but at the moment there came a shout from behind us, and, looking
round, I saw, just at the turn of the avenue, a man on a horse. He was
riding hard, and he carried a revolver in his hand. It was Fritz von
Tarlenheim, my faithful friend. Rupert saw him, and knew that the game
was up. He checked his rush at me and flung his leg over the saddle, but
yet for just a moment he waited. Leaning forward, he tossed his hair off
his forehead and smiled, and said: "_Au revoir_, Rudolf Rassendyll!"
Then, with his cheek streaming blood, but his lips laughing and his
body swaying with ease and grace, he bowed to me; and he bowed to the
farm-girl, who had drawn near in trembling fascination, and he waved his
hand to Fritz, who was just within range and let fly a shot at him. The
ball came nigh doing its work, for it struck the sword he held, and he
dropped the sword with an oath, wringing his fingers and clapped his
heels hard on his horse's belly, and rode away at a gallop.
And I watched him go down the long avenue, riding as though he rode for
his pleasure and singing as he went, for all there was that gash in his
cheek.


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