"It
will be conveniently near; for once I go over the mountain-side, I'll
swear naught will stop me until I reach the valley--a parcel of broken
bones."
"Steady, my friends," murmured the voice of Aquila. "They come."
And round that fateful corner they were now swinging into view--a company
in steel heads and bodies with partisan on shoulder. A moment they
halted now, so that the waiting party almost deemed itself observed. But
it soon became clear that the halt was to the end that the stragglers
might come up. Masuccio was a man who took no chances; every knave of
his fifty would he have before he ventured the assault.
"Now," murmured the Count, tightening his hat upon his brow, so that it
might the better mask his features. Then rising in his stirrups, and
raising his sword on high, he let his voice be heard again. But no
longer in a whisper. Like a trumpet-call it rang, echoed and re-echoed
up the mountain-side.
"Forward! St. Michael and the Virgin!"
That mighty shout, followed as it was by a thunder of hooves, gave pause
to the advancing mercenaries. Masuccio's voice was heard, calling to
them to stand firm; bidding them kneel and ward the charge with their
pikes; assuring them with curses that they had but to deal with half-
dozen men. But the mountain echoes were delusive, and that thunder of
descending hooves seemed to them not of a half-dozen but of a regiment.
Despite Masuccio's imprecations the foremost turned, and in that moment
the riders were upon them, through them and over them, like the mighty
torrent of which Ferrabraccio had spoken.
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