The tramp of feet had now grown louder and nearer, and with
it came the clank of armour. In front of them lay the path which sloped,
for a hundred yards or more, to the first corner. Below them, on the
right, the path again appeared at the point where it jutted out for some
half-dozen yards in its zigzag course, and there Fanfulla caught the
gleam of steel, reflecting the feeble moonlight. He drew Ferrabraccio's
attention to it, and that stout warrior at once gave the word to start.
But Francesco interposed.
"If we do so," he objected, "we shall come upon them past the corner, and
at that corner we shall be forced to slacken speed to avoid being carried
over the edge of the cliff. Besides, in such a strait our horses may
fail us, and refuse the ground. In any event, we shall not descend upon
them with the same force as we shall carry if we wait until they come
into a straight line with us. The shadows here will screen us from them
meanwhile."
"You are right, Lord Count. We will wait," was the ready answer. And
what time they waited he grumbled lustily.
"To be caught in such a trap as this! Body of Satan! It was a madness
to have met in a hut with but one approach."
"We might perhaps have retreated down the cliff behind," said Francesco.
"We might indeed--had we been sparrows or mountain cats. But being men,
the way we go is the only way--and a mighty bad way it is. I should like
to be buried at Sant' Angelo, Lord Count," he continued whimsically.
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