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“I shall try to get it for the Countess!” said Henry.

Then I heard the most unmistakable, and upon occasion also the most thrilling, of sounds–the clicking of a well-oiled lock. My heart leapt within me–no longer flying in swift, light fashion like footsteps running, but bounding madly in great leaps.

Silently I swept the Countess behind me into the recess of the niche, forcing her down upon the stone seat, and bending my body like a shield over her.

In a moment Henry’s piece crashed close at my ear, a keen pain ran like molten lead down my arm; and, spite of my hand upon her lips, Lucia gave a little cry. “I think I got it that time!” I heard Henry’s voice say. “Count, run round and see. I shall go this way.”

“Run, Lucy,” I whispered, “they are coming. They must not find you.”

“But you are hurt?” she said anxiously.

“No,” I said, lying to her, as a man does so easily to a woman. “I am not at all hurt. Have I hurt you?”

For I had thrust her behind me with all my might.

“I cannot tell yet whether you have hurt me or not,” she said. “You men of the North are too strong!”

“But they come. Run, Lucy, beloved!” I said.

CHAPTER XII

A NIGHT ASSAULT

And she melted into the night, swiftly as a bird goes. Then I became aware of flying footsteps. It seemed that I had better not be found there, lest I should compromise the Countess with her brother, and find myself with a duel upon my hands in addition to my other embarrassments. So I set my toes upon the little projections of the stone parapet, taking advantage of the hooks which confined the creepers, and clutching desperately with my hands, so that I scrambled to the top just as the Count and Henry met below.

“Strike a light, Count,” I heard Henry say; “I am sure I hit something. I heard a cry.”

A light flamed up. There was the rustling noise of the broad leaves of the creeper being pushed aside.

“Here is blood!” cried Henry. “I was sure I hit something that time!”

His tone was triumphant.

“I tell you what it is, Monsieur,” said the calm voice of the Count: “if you go through the world banging off shots on the chance of shooting white owls which you do not see, you are indeed likely to hit something. But whether you will like it after it is hit, is another matter.”

Then I went indoors, for my arm was paining me. In my own room I eagerly examined the wound. It was but slight. A pellet or two had grazed my arm and ploughed their way along the thickness of the skin, but none had entered deeply. So I wrapped my arm in a little lint and some old linen, and went to bed.

I did not again see the Countess till noon on the morrow, when her carriage was at the door and she tripped down the steps to enter.

The Count stood by it, holding the door for her to enter–I midway down the broad flight of steps.

“Good-bye,” she said, holding out her hand, from which she deftly drew the glove. “We shall meet again.”

“God grant it! I live for that!” said I, so low that the Count did not hear, as I bent to kiss her hand. For in these months I had learned many things.

At this moment Henry came up to say farewell, and he shook her hand with boyish affectation of the true British indifference, which at that time it was the correct thing for Englishmen to assume at parting.

“Nice boy!” said the Countess indulgently, looking up at me. The Count bowed and smiled, and smiled and bowed, till the carriage drove out of sight.

Then in a moment he turned to me with a fierce and frowning countenance.

“And now, Monsieur, I have the honour to ask you to explain all this!”