Then Fatia Negra fled down towards the valley.
It was a desperate way for him to take, for down hill his adversary
could cover the ground as quickly as he could; the distance between them
was never more than ten paces, the wound the robber had received began
to enervate his whole body, and he was not long in finding out that the
hurling of missiles is a very profitless mode of warfare when you have
only one hand at your disposal.
Panting hard he fled on further seeking refuge. And now he took to
zigzagging through the wood in the hope of dodging his pursuer if only
for an instant as a flying fox is wont to do when he is already nearing
his hole whose entrance he does not wish to betray to his pursuer.
A little further on a stout quickset hedge barred their way. Fatia Negra
burst through it and Szilard followed in the gap that he had made.
Suddenly a hunting lodge came in view--at least the antlers on the top
of the porch and above the windows suggested that that was what it was
intended for.
One of the windows looking out upon the forest stood open. Fatia Negra
suddenly stopped short, waited till his adversary was close up to him
and then shaking his fist at him sprang through the open window.
Vamhidy did not hesitate a moment about following the adventurer into
the house. He forced his way through the window and found himself in a
dark corridor at the extreme end of which the footsteps of the hunted
adventurer were still resounding.
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