"Were the season other,
Ferrabraccio, I could crave leave to show you how much of youth there is
still left in me. But----" He paused. His angry eyes had alighted upon
the Count, who stood waiting by the door, and the whole expression of his
countenance changed. "You are right, Ferrabraccio, I grow old indeed--a
dotard. Take you my horse, and begone."
"But you?" quoth the Count solicitously.
"I shall remain. If you do your duty well by those hirelings they will
not trouble me. It will not occur to them that one was left behind.
They will think only of following you after you have cut through them.
Go, go, sirs, or all is lost."
They obeyed him now with a rush that seemed almost to partake of panic.
In a frenzied haste Fanfulla and another tore the tetherings loose, and a
moment later they were all mounted and ready for that fearful ride. The
night was dark, yet not too dark. The sky was cloudless and thickly
starred, whilst a minguant moon helped to illumine the way by which they
were to go. But on that broken and uncertain mountain path the shadows
lay thickly enough to make their venture desperate.
Ferrabraccio claiming a better knowledge than his comrades of the way,
placed himself at their head, with the Count beside him. Behind them,
two by two, came the four others. They stood on a small ledge in the
shadow of the great cliff that loomed on their left. Thence the
mountain-side might be scanned--as well as in such a light it was to be
discerned.
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