The groan must have been taken by the man who was waiting to kill him as a sign that he was no longer capable of putting up a fight, for a moment later there came a scampering sound on the far side of the horse and a brief order shouted in a German patois that Roger did not understand.
Next second, to his horror, the reason for the scampering and the order was made clear: a big wolf hound suddenly came bounding round the buttocks of the dead horse. The brute had been sent by its owner to flush Roger out. He had laid aside his pistol, but was still holding the knife with which he had been trying to slit his boot open.
With a ferocious snarl the beast leapt at him. He was lying at full length. To have scrambled to his knees, so as to be better able to meet the attack would have been fatal, for he had no doubt that his enemy had now come out of the wood and was only waiting for him to raise his head above the level of the horse to put a bullet through it.
The wolfhound's jaws gaped wide. Another moment and his gleaming fangs would have fastened themselves in Roger's throat and torn it out. In a bound the beast was upon him, pinning down his hand that held the knife. There was only one hope of saving himself. Clenching his left fist, he drove it straight into the big dog's mouth. Automatically the jaws snapped to. Roger gasped as the sharp teeth bit into the sides of his forearm, but the sustained force of the beast's spring and the thrust of Roger's fist had carried his hand right through the slobbering mouth and down into the animal's gullet. The yellow eyes distended to their fullest extent, it snorted fiercely in a vain endeavour to draw breath. Choking, it reared up and thrashed wildly with its forepaws on Roger's chest as it strove to wriggle free. Its efforts to draw away released Roger's right hand, in which he still held the knife. Savagely he thrust upward with it into the brute's belly, then turned the weapon in the wound. Next moment a warm mess of blood and guts were pouring out over his arm and body. The great dog jerked spasmodically, tore its mouth free of Roger's left arm, gave a whimpering howl and collapsed upon him.
Roger's heart was pounding fiercely as he lay motionless, the strength temporarily drained from all his limbs. But his mind was working frantically, for he was acutely aware that he was still in deadly peril. To have survived the attack by the savage hound was more than he could have hoped for when he first heard it snarl and saw it come bounding towards him. But he had yet to escape death at the hands of its master, whom he knew must be lurking only a few yards away on the far side of the horse, with his musket at the ready.
Making a great effort he pushed the dead hound half off him, pulled his knife out of the gaping wound and transferred it to his left hand; then, with his right, he groped for and found his pistol.
Now, having got his breath back he was, for a moment, sorely tempted to end matters, one way or another, by taking a gamble with fate. Being a crack shot with a pistol, he felt certain that if he suddenly sat up and his enemy was within fifteen paces, he could kill him. But he had only the one bullet, and no means of reloading. The second he exposed himself the man would bring his musket to bear and, if he was further off, the odds would be in his favour.
On the other hand the man must know that his hound was dead and possibly think that Roger had died in his struggle with it; or at least have been rendered helpless. Within a few moments it was certain that he would come round to find out what had happened. To do so he would have to expose himself and be within easy range. Having considered these alternatives, Roger's native caution decided him to ignore his impulse and lie doggo.
The greatest clanger entailed by his decision was that he had no means of guessing whether his enemy would come round by his horse's head or its tail and, lying at full length as he was, he could not keep his eyes fixed on both simultaneously. All he could do, while glancing first one way then the other, was to strain his ears for sounds of the killer's approach.
He waited in an agony of apprehension. Time seemed to stand still. The suspense was almost unbearable. Again he was seized with the temptation to sit up, but fought it down. He knew that with his right leg useless, his left arm torn and aching from the dog's fierce bite, weakened by loss of blood and lying there on his back, he was no match even for an active, well-grown boy, let alone a cunning and stalwart peasant; yet he longed desperately for an end to this hideous uncertainty.
At last it came, and when it did come took him by surprise. His only warning was the sound of a few swift footfalls on the muddy, rutted road. But his enemy appeared neither round the head nor tail of the dead horse. He ran straight at it, looming suddenly above the saddle, with his musket pointed down at Roger.
He was a tall man with gangling limbs, wearing a worn, rabbit-skin jacket over filthy rags. His hair, a dirty brown streaked with grey, was an untidy mop, standing out in tufts where it had been roughly cut. A straggling beard covered his cheeks and chin. His lips stood out red and thick, his eyes were small, dark, and glaring hatred.
Caught off his guard, Roger had no chance to use his pistol, for to aim it he would have to throw his right arm across his chest. His eyes started from his head as he stared up into the barrel of the musket. The man's finger was upon the trigger and he was just about to fire. The dead dog still lay half sprawled over Roger's body. Inspiration from beyond suddenly came to him, as it had several times before when his life had been in dire peril. Instantly he acted on the thought that he knew had been sent to him unconsciously by Georgina's spirit which was bound so closely to his own. With all the power he had left he jerked up his good leg. It threw the dog up from midway down his body, so that its dead head landed on his face. A fraction of a second earlier the musket had been fired. The bullet ploughed through the wolfhound's head instead of Roger's.
Even as the dog's blood and brains poured over Roger's face he realised that he still had a chance to save his life; but that it would last only the next few moments. He must get the better of his attacker before he had time to reload his musket, otherwise he would be irretrievably lost.
Thrusting aside the horribly shattered carcase of the animal, he shook his head violently to get the filthy muck out of his eyes, then sat up. His right eye was still blinded by a fragment of the dog's flesh, but with his left he could hazily make out the form of the peasant He had the musket between his knees and was in the act of pouring powder from a horn that hung from his belt down the barrel. Roger swivelled his pistol, strove to steady his quivering hand, aimed for the man's chest and pulled the trigger. To his utter dismay, nothing happened.
The reason flashed upon him. The powder had become wet with the dog's blood. By then the peasant had taken a bullet from his pouch, and was about to drop it down the barrel of his musket. In desperation Roger hurled the now useless pistol at him. It caught him sideways on, full in the face. With a howl he let the musket fall, clutched at his broken nose, then staggered and fell.
For Roger to have remained where he was would have been fatal. The injury he had inflicted on his enemy was not sufficient to prevent him from coming to his feet and completing the reloading of his musket. Transferring his knife to his right hand, Roger heaved himself and, dragging his wounded leg behind him, scrambled over the horse's body. The peasant had come to his knees and stretched out a hand to grab his musket. Suddenly both of them went still and remained for a moment as though frozen. Simultaneously they had caught the sound of horses' hooves coming up the road from the direction of Dresden.